


Game of Thrones

by JynErsoinNYC



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Armies and Allies, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Family Drama, Family Feels, Romance, Sexual Tension, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-09-28 08:45:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 24,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17179712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JynErsoinNYC/pseuds/JynErsoinNYC
Summary: Winter is here......Then Jon stood, taking Arya’s hand and Bran’s shoulder, drawing the four of them into a circle.Sansa smiled. “The Starks have returned to Winterfell.”“Aye,” Jon said. “We’re home.”There was a shine in even Bran’s eye as the four of them stayed that way a moment longer. Four others stood with them too, though they were unseen…now only memories. Their Father stood beside Arya, a proud hand resting on her shoulder. Their Mother was by Sansa, a graceful smile adorning her face. Rickon stood behind Bran, arms wrapped around his brother’s neck. And Robb stood next to Jon, a hand lingering on the pommel of his sword.





	1. Arya

Arya’s chambers still felt different.

 

Even though two whole lunar cycles had passed since her return to Winterfell, returning to her bed each night to rest still felt strange.

 

Not because she wasn’t content to be home. Every day, Arya was re-discovering little bits of Winterfell she had forgotten these past five years, and, to her surprise, they had started to refill a hollowness she had not realised was there. It was only when she closed the door to her room that a haunting quiet settled over her. Arya could still feel the previous tenant of her chambers, lingering like a ghost. She hadn’t asked anyone who had taken it during the Bolton’s occupation of Winterfell. She had a suspicion she wouldn’t like the answer.

 

Arya supposed it would take time to feel normal again, but she wished it would hurry up because she was starting to lose sleep.

 

Indeed, she appeared to be the only resident of Winterfell awake at this hour. She waved a gloved hand in front of the night watch’s hooded helmet and allowed herself a thorough eyeroll when his only response was a snore. It wouldn’t do to have the castle unguarded during these long, dark nights. So, if Arya couldn’t sleep, she would stand watch.

 

The horizon was starting to lighten – the inky black fading to a dark grey. It wasn’t snowing for once, though clouds still swathed the sky. Perhaps it would fall later, and the Dragon Queen would be greeted by the raw, brutal force of these blizzards the North was seeing of late.

 

For today Arya’s brother returned to Winterfell, in company with the Eastern conqueror and her court. And three dragons, if the rumours were true.

 

Arya knew better than to trust gossip, but she had heard several concurring stories about this Mother of Dragons during her time in Braavos as well. And if it helped them defeat the living dead, then she was happy to believe in anything.

 

Arya gripped the handle of Needle as she stared over the castle wall toward the Kings Road, where in a few hours Jon was expected to return with allies and armies that might help them win this war. The blade was light at her side, and she had the familiar sudden urge to whip it free. She had done so every morning she had been at Winterfell, mostly with Brienne of Tarth. But the knight had left for King’s Landing a month ago, so, Arya hadn’t had a good fight in a while.

 

Stabbing Littlefinger in the neck didn’t count.

 

But she still practiced her water dancing every morning and afternoon, refining and perfecting her moves, melding them with the techniques she had learnt during her training in the House of Black and White. It dulled the edge, but just barely.

 

Second only to finally re-uniting with her brother, she was eager to spar with Brienne again. She was a good training partner, even if her style was brute. There wasn’t much else to look forward to, Arya thought, turning to face the North. To the wall a hundred miles up the road that was the only thing separating the living from the dead.

 

It sounded truly ludicrous, but Arya trusted Bran – who had apparently seen this dead army in his visions. After all, the mere fact that Bran had these raven-vision-things was ludicrous. But she supposed being able to change faces was also a little ludicrous. Who was she to doubt his word?

 

So, when the Night King and his army of the dead arrived – and they would – Arya would be ready. With Needle at one side, her Valyrian steel dagger at her other, and her family at her back, Arya was as able and prepared as any soldier.

 

Arya heard the night watch snort awake, so she left her post on the wall and walked back inside. It was just as cold, the fire in the sconces doing little to warm the stone corridors. But when she entered the Great Hall, the great hearth was doing a satisfactory job. She tugged off her gloves and sat down next to Bran. It was still early, but she knew Bran also didn’t sleep a lot these days, so she wasn’t surprised to see him at the high table. Sansa would probably still be sleeping. And even though a younger Arya would have teased her elder sister about her beauty sleep, she now quietly encouraged Sansa to get as much rest as possible. Arya imagined being Lady of Winterfell during war was not a flattering business, though Sansa still managed to look beautiful in her embroidered gowns and fur cloaks. Arya stuck to a leather jerkin and pants. Easier to fight in.

 

“Good morning, Arya,” Bran said. He still had a vacant look in his eye, in the stillness of his face. She didn’t think he was registering what he was eating.

 

Arya stuffed a chunk of bread into her mouth and swallowed it with milk. “Have you seen anything important?”

 

Bran wasn’t annoyed by the question, like how she knew she would be if she was this Three Eyed Raven and the first thing someone asked her in the morning was if she had had any visions.

 

No. Bran seemed to welcome the question. He even looked at her when he answered. “Meera is returning to Winterfell, with Reed forces. Not many, but a few hundred.”

 

Arya frowned. She had heard of a Reed girl helping Bran north of the Wall.

 

“Good. How long until they are here?” she asked.

 

“A few days,” Bran answered.

 

Arya stirred the contents of her bowl half-heartedly. “I hope this is enough. I hope we’re enough, I mean.”

 

Bran didn’t say anything for a while, but when he finally murmured “so do I”, Arya shivered, sensing that Bran was seeing things she could only imagine.

 

The door opened across the hall and Sansa entered.

 

Suddenly, the importance of the day registered with Arya. It was the way Sansa carried herself as she walked across the hall and took a seat at the centre of the table, chin up and clear-eyed. The Lady of Winterfell. Ready to greet a Queen whom might have agreed to be an ally in the war for the living, but was still here to conquer Westeros after it was over.

 

“Jon is expected mid-morning,” Sansa said, pouring herself tea. “I want you both in here then.”

 

Arya nodded, spooning soup into her mouth. Bran didn’t respond.

 

Sansa leaned back in her chair and observed her. “I heard a story,” she began.

 

Arya looked up, not liking the tone or the eye her older sister was giving her. “What about?”

 

“A band of thieves were caught trying to pillage our supplies in the barracks. They told us there was nothing left for them at The Twins, so they travelled North. Stupid, really. There’s nothing for them up here but the cold and the dead. One of Walder Frey’s daughters was among them. She said that her father poisoned all his men and then turned into a girl. Strange, isn’t it?”

 

Arya sat up straight but kept her face still as stone. Bran was now paying attention.

 

“Do you know what this mysterious girl said?” Sansa asked, brow raised.

 

Arya knew that Sansa was well aware that she had killed Frey, so she opened her mouth to answer.

 

Bran opened his first. “The North remembers.”

 

Arya shrugged nonchalantly when Sansa and Bran watched her. “He was on my list.”

 

Sansa gave her the same look she had given her every time Arya’s list was mentioned, though Arya hadn’t ever told them who was on it. “Are you sure you want to kill all these people?”

 

Arya stood and pulled her gloves back on. “No one else will, so I have to do it.”

 

She left Bran and Sansa at breakfast and went to the courtyard. Cold wind blew flurries of old snow across the muddy ground.

 

Arya drew Needle from its sheath and took her stance. The movements came naturally, the twirling and parrying and thrusting. The thin blade whistled in the air, barely visible even to Arya. When she almost sliced an ear off a passing smith for being too focused on her swordplay, Arya instead picked up a bow. She hadn’t practiced in a long time. Her fingers were frozen cold beneath her gloves, so it took her several sloppy attempts to even hit the target board. But when she finally stuck an arrow, all the secret archery lessons with her father came rushing back. It would never top water dancing, but archery was a close second.

 

The sky lightened to a shining silver, and now the courtyard was filled with people preparing for the arrivals. Some shovelled old snow, others carried firewood and bedclothes.

 

Arya felt drops of sweat frozen to her brow, so she left training behind and went to her chambers. Hot water had been left for her and she cleaned herself. She wasn’t a Lady, but she wanted to look presentable for Jon. And this Dragon Queen, though she would never admit it.

 

After cleaning Needle and the Valyrian steel dagger, Arya left her room, waving away the maid who had come to do her hair. Even if Arya wanted to, her dark hair wasn’t long enough to style. A simple knot kept it from falling in her eyes, which was all she needed.

 

Before she went to join Sansa and Bran in the Great Hall, she hurried to the castle wall. It was indeed snowing now. And about a mile away, she saw a dark mass against the white.

 

Arya stilled.

 

The army was vast, still emerging from the wild forest at their backs. She imagined she could hear their synchronous thumping footsteps. The clang of their armour. The clop of the Dothraki horse hooves.

 

No sign of dragons, however.

 

At the front, Arya saw several figures on horseback leading the way. She couldn’t tell for sure, but it had to be Jon and the Queen and her court.

 

Jon.

 

Finally. After five years.

 

She knew she would recognise him. She always would.

 

But would he remember her?

 

Beside Sansa and Bran, she was Arya Stark.

 

Not Arya Horseface, as she had been when she left Winterfell, or Arry the orphan boy when she had left King’s Landing. Not even No One anymore.

 

She was Arya Stark of Winterfell. And Jon would know.

 

Arya smiled and left to take her place beside Sansa.


	2. Jon

Jon struggled to pinpoint Dany.

 

Atop a white mare in a white fur cloak, she blended into the blizzard like another flake of snow.

 

It wasn’t a strong blizzard, thank the gods, but the snowfall was heavy, and Jon couldn’t see for more than a hundred yards.

 

Dany had ridden ahead to call Drogon and Rhaegal back to heel, not wishing to startle Winterfell with two fully-grown dragons. Perhaps not the politest impression, she had reasoned.

 

Winterfell was still a few miles north. Their boats had arrived at White Harbour a day ago, and they had been marching up the Kingsroad since then. The usually dense green wood was now bare and coated in frost. Weather like this never travelled this far south of Winterfell.

 

Winter was most certainly here.

 

Although they did not admit it, it was clear that both the Unsullied and the Dothraki were having a hard time adjusting to the brutal elements of the North. It was only the fact that Jon, as well as several others who kept his company, had travelled beyond the Wall and faced worse weather that kept him from suffering too much.

 

Indeed, Ser Mormont, The Hound and even Dany didn’t bother complaining about the cold. It didn’t come close to the Winter beyond the Wall. But that Winter was here, and soon it would reach its peak.

 

A roar shattered through the world, piercing the snowy winds. A dark shadow glided over the silver clouds, followed by another. The dragons had returned, and Dany with them.

 

Up ahead, she galloped back towards them, only the tan skin of her face offsetting her from the white. She drew her mare to a trot between Mormont and Jon, both of whom rode black stallions. On Jon’s other side, Davos sat atop a grey mare, and beside him a wagon carried Tyrion, Varys and Missandei.

 

“No trouble, I presume,” Tyrion called from the wagon, his beady eyes barely visible through his long hair and fur hood.

 

Dany leaned around Jon and Davos. “They came at my call, but I sense they search for their brother.”

 

There was a long silence as everyone again remembered where Viserion had fallen, and who he had been left behind with. And what had likely been done with him.

 

Jon turned to Dany, but there were no words to say that would soften that loss.

 

Tyrion went back to his conversation with Varys as Brienne of Tarth rode up alongside The Hound to join them.

 

“I don’t know where you plan on putting this lot at Winterfell,” Clegane said, gruff voice even more rough in this weather.

 

“Sansa has made arrangements,” was all Jon said. He didn’t much like The Hound, despite what he had been told by Brienne about Clegane’s travels with Arya, as well as his help beyond the Wall.

 

Clegane huffed. “The last time I saw that girl she could barely utter a word in self-defence. Now she’s commanding armies for war?”

 

Jon stiffened. Dany glanced sideways at him to gage his reaction, but Brienne beat him to it.

 

“I would beg you not to speak of my Lady that way,” the golden-haired knight announced, “She has been through more than you know.”

 

Clegane rode in silence for a moment, but surprised them all when he said, “I know what she’s been through.”

 

Dany spoke up then, white-gloved hands twisted in her mare’s reigns. “When do we reach Winterfell?”

 

“Another hour,” Jon answered, and found her trying to hide a smirk. It made him smile as well.

 

It had only been a day since they had laid together, but it appeared he wasn’t the only one eager to do so again. And both he and Dany knew a bed and four walls awaited them at Winterfell.

 

“That’s if we don’t lose our way in this storm,” Davos muttered.

 

Mormont ginned over at him. “You call this a storm, Ser Davos? I call this a summer breeze compared to north of the Wall.”

 

Davos didn’t react to the jest, though Clegane snorted in agreement.

 

Brienne came up beside Jon. “Your Grace, have you heard word from Eastwatch?”

 

Tyrion and Varys stopped talking to listen in. Missandei sat beside them quietly, also listening.

 

“None,” Jon said, “though Eastwatch was secure when we left.”

 

Brienne nodded, but still appeared unsatisfied. “And is that normal, Your Grace, to not receive word?”

 

Davos spoke up. “I have to agree with Lady Brienne, Your Grace, it’s been almost seven days.”

 

Jon looked at Dany, but she was only scanning the cloudy skies for two shadows. “When we arrive at Winterfell I’ll send a raven.”

 

Brienne gave another grim nod and fell back beside Clegane.

 

Davos continued, however. “It’s just that I told Gendry to send word every other day. And unless the boy’s forgotten – which I wouldn’t put past the lad – I’m sensing something amiss.”

 

The more Jon thought of it, the more he agreed. “Aye. Tormund has been quiet.”

 

They continued to ride, the two armies at their backs. And in exactly an hour, as Jon had said, the walls of Winterfell were sighted through the snow – wide and dark and towering. Arya was within those walls, as was Bran. His brother and his sister he hadn’t seen for five years and had thought dead for most of that time. It was like a punch in the gut to know that he would finally be reuniting with them, but in such terrible times. Bittersweet, as his father would have called it.

 

As they passed through the hills and hills of barracks Sansa had overseen the construction of – meagre, but satisfactory war tents – they left the Unsullied and the Dothraki to settle. Only Dany’s court and his own continued up toward the castle. To properly kickstart this alliance and begin planning for the approaching war.

 

And to see Arya and Bran again.

 

Jon couldn’t help a smile as he passed through the gates of Winterfell.


	3. Sansa

Sansa stood between Arya and Bran and discreetly straightened the skirt of her gown.

 

Lords of the North lined the stone walls of the Great Hall, gathered to greet their King. They whispered amongst themselves about armies and peered out the windows for dragons, their old brows furrowed in suspicion and doubt. Only Lady Lyanna Mormont and her court waited quietly, beside whom stood Samwell Tarly and his lady-friend Gilly.

 

In his wheeled chair, Bran was staring down at the stone floor. The visible dark brown of his eyes told Sansa that he was not currently having any visions. On her other side Arya stood still, but gripped the handle of her sword, the only nerves Sansa knew she would show.

 

Sansa had already reunited with Jon, but she knew that both Arya and Bran had always been closer to their bastard brother than she had ever been. And this moment marked the end of five years of separation of the Stark family.

 

Sansa hadn’t liked the idea of Jon going south to Dragonstone to meet with this queen from Essos, but she had liked it even less when she had received word that Jon was bringing her back to Winterfell, with two armies behind her and three dragons above. The only thing that stopped Sansa from outright complaint was the knowledge that they could not win this war without this Queen’s help.

 

Footsteps echoed in the corridor and Jon appeared. At his side came a young woman – perhaps a year or two older than Sansa – with white-silver hair.

 

The Dragon Queen was small, but what she lacked in height she made up in air. Her walk was straight and unwavering. She held her head high and clasped her hands delicately in front of a black tunic. A shining Targaryen brooch pinned a wave of fiery-red fabric across her shoulder. She looked like a dragon herself. The Queen didn’t shy away from the glares that several of the Lords were giving her.

 

Sansa stiffened when Tyrion Lannister entered the hall, followed by Lord Varys from King’s Landing.

 

The Dragon Queen’s court, it appeared.

 

Ser Davos came as well, followed by a sandy-haired man and a dark-skinned eastern girl. They all came to a halt in the middle of the hall.

 

Sansa watched Jon approach Arya with a vehemence, and her sister move to meet him. Their embrace was long, and they gripped each other so hard Sansa thought they might leave matching bruises. Jon held Arya aloft, her boots barely brushing the ground. They spoke words in whispers that only they could hear, both of their faces buried in each other’s dark hair. When they pulled apart a minute later, grins spread from ear to ear.

 

“Bran,” Jon exclaimed, looking over Arya’s shoulder to his brother.

 

Arya returned to Sansa’s side as Jon carefully approached Bran’s chair and knelt before it. He gazed worriedly at his brother, but then Bran looked up with a small smile. “Jon.”

 

Jon grinned and pulled Bran forward, wrapping him in his arms. Bran patted Jon on the back, smiling at the ground.

 

Then Jon stood, taking Arya’s hand and Bran’s shoulder, drawing the four of them into a circle.

 

Sansa smiled. “The Starks have returned to Winterfell.”

 

“Aye,” Jon said. “We’re home.”

 

There was a shine in even Bran’s eye as the four of them stayed that way a moment longer. Four others stood with them too, though they were unseen…now only memories. Their Father stood beside Arya, a proud hand resting on her shoulder. Their Mother was by Sansa, a graceful smile adorning her face. Rickon stood behind Bran, arms wrapped around his brother’s neck. And Robb stood next to Jon, a hand lingering on the pommel of his sword.

 

Sansa blinked, and the image disappeared. So many unspoken words lingered between them, but with no time to say any.

 

Jon turned and went to greet Sam. They embraced tightly.

 

“Thank you, Sam,” Jon said, gripping his friend’s shoulder. “We wouldn’t be here without you.”

 

Sam gave his typical self-demeaning shrug. “We wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t let me go to the Citadel.”

 

“Samwell Tarly,” someone called.

 

The sandy-haired man broke from the crowd and strode over, a surprised grin on his face.

 

“Ser Mormont,” Sam uttered in bewilderment.

 

Ser Mormont clasped Sam’s arm and pulled him into a hug. “A surprise to find you here, but a good one.”

 

Jon frowned. “You two know each other?”

 

Though Jon had asked the question, it was the Dragon Queen who Ser Mormont turned to. He gestured to Sam. “My cure.”

 

The Queen lifted an eyebrow – the first sentiment she had shown. Jon and Tyrion both looked highly astounded as well. In that moment, Sansa felt like she was watching through a window, far removed from these familiarities.

 

The Queen looked at Sam. “I thank you for healing my longest friend and advisor. I am in your debt.”

 

Sam blushed and shook his head. “It was no trouble, really.”

 

“Mormont?” Another voice called. A young voice.

 

Lady Lyanna stepped forward. “Jorah Mormont?”

 

Ser Mormont turned and found Lyanna staring up at him. “Yes.”

 

The girl wasn’t smiling, but her eyes were unusually bright. “I am Lyanna Mormont of Bear Island. You are my cousin.”

 

Ser Mormont stared down at Lyanna, seemingly bemused by the girl’s audaciousness. “Is that so?”

 

Lyanna nodded. “My Uncle – your Father – was Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

 

Recognition flared in Ser Mormont’s eyes. “Indeed he was. It is an honour, then, My Lady.”

 

Tyrion Lannister cleared his throat and walked towards the front of the room, stopping a few feet away. “Well then, if there are no other reunions apart from myself and Lady Sansa – it’s good to see you again, dear – then I suggest we get on with it.”

 

The Queen stepped up to Tyrion’s side.

 

“This is Queen Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Lady of Dragonstone, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons,” Tyrion announced to the Starks, then took a breath. “She has come to aid you in this war.”

 

Jon spoke for his siblings. “My sister, Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell.”

 

Sansa bowed her head to the Queen, only because she never forgot her courtesies.

 

“My sister, Arya Stark of Winterfell, and my brother, Brandon Stark of Winterfell,” Jon finished.

 

Beside her, Arya gave the Queen an impartial stare, while Bran didn’t even deign to look. The Queen gave her brother a lingering glance, like she could sense the abnormality of his current disposition.

 

“It’s good to see you again, children,” Tyrion said, smiling at Arya and Bran in turn. “You have grown since we last met.”

 

“So have you,” Sansa commented idly, noticing the brooch pinned to Tyrion’s tunic.

 

“In the world?” Tyrion asked, patting the badge. “I have indeed. But I’m still as short as ever.”

 

“My Hand,” Queen Daenerys said, stepping forward. “Thank you, Lady Stark, for the preparation you have done for my armies.”

 

Sansa gave a smile, which could be more accurately described as a show of teeth. “As long as your Easterners don’t succumb to northern cold, then they will have enough food and drink to live.”

 

The Queen blinked.

 

A sudden tension in the room felt tangible.

 

Perhaps she was being a bit taciturn.

 

“And so will you and your court,” Sansa added. “You are welcome at Winterfell.”

 

The tension lightened as the Queen nodded.

 

Then Arya stepped forward. “There will be enough for your men, but for your children we cannot provide.”

 

Sansa noted the challenge in Arya’s voice. Her sister was giving the Queen a marvellously unimpressed stare.

 

The Queen gave a little smirk, and as if in answer, a great roar thundered throughout Winterfell. It came from everywhere and nowhere. Sansa thought the walls might have trembled. The Lords lining them certainly did.

 

Tyrion chuckled.

 

Dragons.

 

Arya didn’t even blink. She smiled at the Queen. “I hope you will permit me to meet them.”

 

Sansa looked at Arya. For a moment, her sister was not standing stern and solemn but was observing the Queen with a mild appreciation.

 

“Of course,” Queen Daenerys said, giving Arya a smile in return.

 

Sansa didn’t miss the look Jon gave the Queen then. Her gut tightened as she remembered the warning Littlefinger had spoken.

 

Footsteps sounded again in the corridor and Brienne entered the hall with her squire, Podrick. Sansa rose her hand to wave her sworn protector over when someone else appeared behind her.

 

Sansa had to blink a few times to make sure she wasn’t imagining it. Imagining him.

 

The Hound strode into the Great Hall.

 

Tall and imposing, he looked down everyone who glanced up at him. A great sword was strapped to his back, but he did not wear a full suit of armour like he had done in King’s Landing.

 

The Great Hall suddenly felt very small.

 

Beside her, Arya noticeably stiffened. She was watching the Hound with narrow eyes – eyes she quickly eradicated of any shock before someone else noticed. The Hound also halted when he marked Arya. His eyes flickered briefly to Sansa in recognition before finding her sister’s again.

 

Sansa repressed a shiver.

 

The Great Hall was silent. Everyone was watching the pair, and Sansa remembered what Brienne had told her about the Hound and Arya. She looked to Brienne now, who nodded across the hall as if in confirmation.

 

“I should have sliced your throat.”

 

Arya’s words were like poison, but her face betrayed nothing.

 

The Hound’s lip curled. “Aye, you should have. But you didn’t.”

 

Sansa was certain she was the only one who noticed Arya’s fingers curl. Everyone else was watching their faces. Lord Varys appeared very amused, hands clasped together on top of his stomach. How he knew about any of this, Sansa wasn’t sure. His little birds, she supposed.

 

“How have you fared without me?” The Hound asked with a smirk, taking a step forward and crossing his arms.

 

Arya brought her hand up to her sword. “Take another step, and you’ll find out.”

 

He smiled this time, a grin that stretched his grotesque scars. He looked more ragged than the last time Sansa had seen him. He opened his mouth to undoubtedly try and antagonise Arya, but Sansa stepped forward and spoke to the Queen. “I’m sure you all wish to rest. I’ll have you shown to your rooms.”

 

The Hound eyed her again, but then Bran spoke up unexpectedly. He lifted his head and looked at Jon.

 

“Rest can wait, Jon. The Wall has fallen, and the dead march south.”


	4. Bran

Bran watched the whole room falter.

 

“Fallen?” Jon said, face scrunched up in confusion.

 

Bran nodded. “At Eastwatch. The Night King is south of the Wall, leading his army through.”

 

Davos stepped forward, shaking his head. “That’s not possible. The Wall is indestructible.”

 

Bran only looked to the Queen. She was watching him with an even face, but he could see the worry churning in her lilac eyes. He nodded once, confirming her suspicion.

 

“Viserion,” was all Daenerys said.

 

Everyone turned to look at her.

 

Ser Mormont approached her side. “You think the Night King turned Viserion?”

 

Daenerys hadn’t stopped looking at Bran. “I know it. I can feel it.”

 

“Dragon fire could melt the ice,” Tyrion said, worry furrowing his brow.

 

“And we left him there…” Daenerys murmured, turning to look at Jon.

 

Jon frowned. “There was nothing to be done.”

 

There was a murmur of confusion among the Lords.

 

“What is this about?” Sansa spoke for them.

 

Bran probably should have told his sisters at breakfast, though he had been distracted with thoughts of another army.

 

The Hound uncrossed his arms and eyed Bran’s sister. “We went beyond the Wall.”

 

“We needed proof of the dead army to get Cersei Lannister to help us,” Jon added.

 

“Cersei Lannister?” Sansa exclaimed. “Why would Cersei Lannister help us?”

 

“Because my sister very much wishes to live,” Tyrion said. “She agreed to a meeting and now offers to support us in this war. The Lannister forces march north.”

 

“I don’t believe that,” Arya muttered.

 

Jon looked at Sansa. “We ran into trouble beyond the Wall. Her Grace rescued us, but –”

 

“But I lost one of my dragons,” Daenerys continued. “The Night King can turn both men and creatures into the living dead. Your brother has seen it for himself, haven’t you Brandon?”

 

Bran looked up. “I have.”

 

“How is this?” Lord Varys asked curiously, stepping forward.

 

Bran looked at Jon when he answered. “Because I’m the Three Eyed Raven. I can see everything that has happened in the past, and everything that is happening in the present.”

 

To his credit, Jon didn’t look too surprised. Bran supposed he had seen enough myths come to life to believe it.

 

“When did this happen?” Jon asked him.

 

“Last night.”

 

Sansa and Arya both gave him subtle – but no less searing – glares.

 

Jon turned to Davos. “Eastwatch.”

 

“Aye,” Davos worried, face grave. He looked at Bran. “Were there any survivors?”

 

Bran remembered seeing the Wildling leader Tormund commanding the escaping Watchers and Wildlings to run. He had woken before he saw them again. “I can find out.”

 

Arya came to his side and touched his shoulder “Do you want to go to the Godswood?”

 

“No time,” Bran said, and closed his eyes.

 

…

 

_There were two hundred of them, running. Through thick woods and over icy hills. Tormund didn’t know where he was, where Winterfell was. A half-frozen river curved around his remaining people, blocking their way forward…_

 

…

 

Bran snapped awake.

 

Jon was kneeling before him. Bran saw Daenerys and her court watching him with varying degrees of surprise.

 

“Several miles north west of Last Hearth,” he told them. “Tormund, and about two hundred Wildlings. They don’t know where they are.”

 

Jon gave him a grim smile and rose, turning to face the hall. “We send a party to bring them back to Winterfell.”

 

Ser Mormont stepped forward readily, then the Hound moved to stand beside him as well.

 

“You two will come with me,” Jon told them.

 

“It’s too great a risk,” Daenerys countered. “The Night King has Viserion now, he can move faster than any of you.”

 

Jon and Daenerys held weighty stares.

 

“We can’t afford to lose the Wildlings,” Jon finally said, looking away from her. “With the dead army on the move, we need to work quickly.”

 

He faced the two knights. “We leave at first light.”

 

The Hound and Ser Mormont nodded.

 

“In the meantime, Davos, oversee the transportation of the dragon glass weapons to Winterfell. And Dany –”

 

Jon faltered as he said it. Everyone noted the insolence and looked to gage the Queen’s reaction, but she didn’t seem to take offence. Bran smiled inwardly, remembering the vision he hadn’t wanted to see, but had been powerless to stop.

 

“Prepare the Unsullied and the Dothraki,” Jon continued. “When the Lannister forces arrive, we move to meet the Night King. We can’t let his army move south for much longer.”

 

Daenerys looked like she wanted to argue again, but Ser Mormont took her arm. “He’s right, Kahleesi.”

 

Tyrion also nodded when she looked down at him.

 

“Very well,” Daenerys said.

 

Arya walked down the steps to Jon, stern-faced, hand gripping Needle in its sheath. “I’m going with you.”

 

Jon eyed the sword, then Arya. He looked about to disagree, but Lord Varys spoke up.

 

“May I enquire as to where Lord Baelish is? When we last spoke he told me it was here with Lady Sansa in Winterfell.”

 

There was a silence made uncomfortable as the Lords along the walls shifted on the spot. The new arrivals all looked to Sansa, Lord Varys with his head cocked.

 

Sansa and Arya shared a look.

 

“Lord Baelish has paid for his crimes against the Stark family,” Sansa announced, lifting her chin.

 

Bran watched Arya thumb free the Valyrian steel dagger at her side and twirl it idly in her fingers. Jon’s eyes widened, as did Tyrion’s and Lord Varys’. The Hound snorted in amusement.

 

“This is an interesting revelation, indeed,” Lord Varys muttered.

 

Arya slid the dagger back into its sheath and placed a hand on Jon’s arm. “I’m going with you.”

 

Jon didn’t protest as Arya left the hall, pointedly ignoring the Hound on her way out.

 

The silence continued a moment longer until Sansa cleared her throat. “I’ll have you shown to your rooms, then.”

 

As everyone began to filter out, Bran called down to his brother. Jon stepped up to him, and Sam moved to stand by them as well. He saw Daenerys look back briefly but continue out with Sansa.

 

“We need to talk, Jon,” Bran said quietly, meeting his brother’s dark eyes with his own.

 

Jon looked curious but didn’t say anything as he followed Bran out of the Great Hall.

 

As Sam wheeled his chair towards Father’s study, Bran hoped he was making the right decision.


	5. Arya

The crypt was dark, as it was always dark, lit only by a scattering of burning candles.

 

Arya lingered in the centre of the chamber lined with past Starks, thinking.

 

The Hound was in Winterfell. The man she had left for dead, still alive.

 

Typical.

 

She had had the perfect opportunity to end it. End him. But she had thought herself clever when she left him lying on that rocky hill. Had thought he would suffer a slow, painful death.

 

Arya was never making that mistake again. The best way to make sure a man was dead was to kill him yourself and watch until the end.

 

He was a resilient bastard, she would give him that. Perhaps a little accident tonight would leave everyone thinking he had fallen on his sword.

 

Arya heard footsteps approaching, and she reached for Needle.

 

But it was only Sansa.

 

Her sister emerged from the darkness into the dim light and came to stand beside her. Arya wondered how long she had been down here by herself.

 

Sansa eyed her. “Are you alright?”

 

Arya just looked up at the statue of her Aunt Lyanna. “Did you know he was with Jon?”

 

She knew Sansa was well aware of whom she spoke.

 

“No.”

 

“Did you know he was alive?”

 

“No. I hadn’t seen him since he left King’s Landing.”

 

There was a pause and Arya could feel Sansa watching her.

 

“What happened between you two?” Sansa eventually asked.

 

Arya stared at a candle stuck to a ledge carved into the stone, its molten wax dripping down the walls. “I was with the Brotherhood on the Kingsroad when they captured him, so I accused him of murdering Mycha. He fought and won his freedom. When I later ran from the Brotherhood, he found me again. Said he was ransoming me to Robb, but…we were too late.”

 

Arya heard her sister’s quiet intake of breath. She closed her eyes against the image that suddenly reappeared, wishing it away.

 

Grey Wind’s severed head skewered to Robb’s corpse.

 

The revenge Arya had taken had barely soothed her rage. The thought of Frey watching over the execution of her mother and brother still made her sick. And though Sansa had not been there, Arya saw all the same emotions churning in her blue eyes.

 

She continued. “After that, he took me to The Eyrie to sell to Aunt Lysa, but it turned out she had been killed. I thought it so ridiculous. Everyone I had ever known was dying.”

 

Sansa didn’t smile.

 

Arya swallowed. “Sansa, if I had known you were at The Eyrie, I would have stayed. I wouldn’t have left with him.”

 

“I know,” Sansa murmured.

 

“We met Brienne, and she struck him down in a fight. I left him there to die, thought it would be torturous for him. Then I went east without a second thought. I should have stayed…and I should have killed him.”

 

Sansa was quiet for a moment, gazing up at Lyanna. Then she looked back at her. “I gather he was on your list.”

 

Arya gave a firm nod, touching her dagger. “He still is.”

 

Sansa opened her mouth, but hesitated, looking down at the ground.

 

Arya turned to face her fully, curiosity piqued. “What is it?”

 

Sansa fidgeted with the fur of her cuff. “Arya…I know he killed your friend, and I’m still sorry I didn’t try to prevent it, but before you cross him off your list you should know that he helped me several times in King’s Landing when he didn’t have to. He even offered to bring me back to Winterfell when he was leaving.”

 

Arya blinked. “I thought he was lying when he told me that.”

 

Sansa met her eye. “Well, it was true.”

 

Arya stayed silent, and Sansa must have thought her unconvinced because she continued. “And it seems he’s helping Jon now.”

 

“He’s only helping himself.”

 

“Is he?” Sansa countered. “Because Brienne just told me she spoke with him in King’s Landing. Do you know what he told her?”

 

Arya rolled her eyes. “Oh, please don’t let me suffer in ignorance, Sansa.”

 

Her sister levelled her a cool look. “Apparently, he was only trying to protect you.”

 

Arya laughed at that, and Sansa watched on unamused. “And all of this sudden defence…are you trying to protect him?”

 

Sansa seemingly recoiled without even moving. “No, Arya. It’s just that I…I owe him a life debt.”

 

Arya stilled as her sister’s eyes darkened at some memory. She remembered what Sansa had told her about the things she had survived.

 

Arya treaded carefully. “What happened?” she asked.

 

Sansa shook her head. “It’s not worth talking about.”

 

Arya understood, though still asked, “Are they dead?”

 

“He killed them,” Sansa said, still looking distant.

 

Arya considered it all. She had promised she would end anyone who ever hurt her family. And now she was learning that the Hound had saved Sansa from harm.

 

It was hard to do, but she looked at her sister and said, “I’ll spare his life for now.”

 

Arya was bewildered to see Sansa look relieved.

 

“Thank you,” her sister said.

 

Arya rolled her eyes again and made for the stairwell that would take them back above ground. “Subject to change, of course,” she mocked as Sansa walked beside her.

 

Sansa chuckled. “Of course.”

 

They emerged into the grey afternoon. The courtyard was busy with people, so she and Sansa headed for the verandas.

 

“Do you really want to go with Jon tomorrow?” Sansa asked, ascending the stairs with a grace that Arya used to envy.

 

Arya stomped up the steps well enough. “Yes.”

 

She wasn’t about to just stand by playing sword practice when a war was being waged. She had to do something. And going to find Tormund and the Wildings was a good start.

 

Sansa sighed like she thought her sister a lost cause.

 

“Hey,” Arya said indignantly. “I’ll leave the talking and courtesies to you, My Lady, seeing I’m no use as one.”

 

Sansa steered her out of the way of an oncoming Lord by the elbow.

 

“At least your good for something else then,” her sister remarked, looking down at Arya’s steel.

 

Arya smiled.

 

Down the wooden veranda, Brienne was striding up to meet them.

 

“My Ladies,” she greeted, bowing her golden head.

 

“I’m glad to see you,” Arya told her. “I was hoping we could train tomorrow before I leave.”

 

“I’ll be joining you and your brother, but of course,” Brienne said with a smile, and turned to Sansa. “I was surprised to hear about the fate of Lord Baelish, My Lady. I’m sorry I was not here to be your sword.”

 

Sansa looked at Arya. “I may have passed the sentence, but my sister swung the sword. And she managed fine.”

 

Arya grinned. “I don’t think Father would have minded.”

 

Brienne gave them both knowing smiles. “No, I don’t think he would have.”

 

“Brienne, do you know where Jon is?” Sansa asked, looking around.

 

“I believe he’s speaking with Bran and Samwell Tarly,” Brienne answered.

 

“Well, never mind then,” Sansa said, adjusting the sleeve of a glove. “Do you mind if I leave you, Arya? There are letters I have to read.”

 

Arya shrugged. “Please. I don’t envy you.”

 

Sansa gave her a final eyeroll and turned inside, fiery hair flowing behind her.

 

Arya and Brienne walked along the veranda together.

 

“Were you surprised to find the Hound alive in King’s Landing?” Arya asked her, not meeting her eye for fear of being figured out.

 

“I should ask you the same of today, My Lady,” Brienne replied, hands clasped behind her armoured back.

 

“Just call me Arya,” Arya insisted, spotting the knight’s squire following them quietly. His name escaped her. “But after all, you did leave him at death’s door. Enough so that I didn’t bother ending it myself.”

 

Brienne was quiet for a moment. “I fear we may have both been mistaken, Arya.”

 

Arya looked up at Brienne with a frown. Why was everyone defending the bastard?

 

“Why do you say that,” she asked a tad resentfully.

 

“In King’s Landing he proved himself a useful and trustworthy ally,” was all Brienne said.

 

They came to a stop overlooking Winterfell’s gates and turned to face the barracks stretching down the hill, now alive with the clamour of soldiers and horses.

 

“Have you ever seen anything like it?” Arya asked, gesturing to the Dragon Queen’s armies.

 

Brienne smiled grimly. “No, I have not.”

 

Arya remembered the roar that had shaken the foundations of Winterfell. It wasn’t a sound she had ever heard before.

 

“But you have seen the dragons,” she said to Brienne.

 

Brienne looked down at her, stern-eyed. “I have. And they are creatures to behold.”

 

“Where are they now?”

 

“I would say that they come when their mother calls.”

 

“And do you think they’ll help us?” Arya pondered, scanning the silver skies for any sign of scales or talons.

 

Brienne thought for a moment. “If not with the Night King and his army, then most certainly with the Lannisters.”

 

Arya grinned to herself. “I wish I’d been at that meeting. To see Cersei, I mean.”

 

“Cersei is quite good at hiding her reactions…much like you,” Brienne said.

 

Arya gave up looking for shadows and turned to face south. “Well, let’s hope that we defeat the dead if only so we can defeat Cersei after.”

 

Brienne gazed south as well, with a wary eye as though she was looking for something. “Indeed.”


	6. Jon

Jon looked around the room that had once been Father’s study.

 

It had not been tampered with by the Boltons, much to his surprise and relief. The great oak desk, weathered from centuries of use, still sat in the centre of the room. Tiny scrolls covered its surface, curling like the patterns of frost that coated the narrow window behind it. Old, hardened wax still adorned the rough walls and wooden cabinets. The flattened wolf pelts still carpeted the stone floor.

 

Sam built a fire in the hearth as Jon helped Bran out of his wheeled chair and onto the faded lounge. He was so different from how Jon remembered him, and it wasn’t just his height or shorter hair. The new calm frankness unnerved him. The vague look in his eye caught him off guard. Jon hoped that it wouldn’t last, but he had a feeling that he would never again know the old Bran.

 

Jon had never heard of the Three Eyed Raven and had only taken it without question because he knew Bran wasn’t a liar, and because he had already witnessed – and experienced – enough impossible things to believe it.

 

Jon sat down beside Bran with little idea as to what could warrant this private conversation. His brother was watching the fire sparking and spreading in the grate, but Jon could see the words lingering behind his eyes.

 

“I’ll let you decide what you want to do with the information,” Bran began quietly, in a manner that Jon could only describe as mysterious.

 

He wasn’t sure how to reply.

 

“So, you can see everything?” Jon asked, shifting so Bran would look at him.

 

“Not what has not yet come to pass,” Bran admitted, meeting his eye. “So, I don’t how you are going to react.”

 

Jon frowned, then looked at Sam. His friend was watching nervously from beside the mantel, fingers knotted together.

 

Worry took hold of him. “What is it, Bran?”

 

Bran hesitated for a single moment, something like empathy saddening his gaze.

 

Then he spoke.

 

“I had a vision, Jon, of Father at Aunt Lyanna’s death bed. She handed him her new-born baby and asked him to look after it as if it were his own. For it was her child, Aegon, son of Rhaegar Targaryen. It was you, Jon.”

 

Jon blinked slowly.

 

Bran stared back, sharper than ever.

 

“What are you on about?” Jon asked stupidly, not thinking of anything else to say.

 

Bran turned grim. “Jon, you’re the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. Aegon is your birth name.”

 

“Stop,” Jon said abruptly. “Bran, you know my mother was just some woman Father met during the war.”

 

Bran shook his head. “I see everything, Jon. My father took you in as his own, but you are Aunt Lyanna’s son.”

 

Sam stepped forward tentatively. “It’s true, Jon. I’ve seen it written.”

 

“Then why isn’t it old news,” Jon countered a bit angrily.

 

“It was a secret,” Sam answered timidly.

 

Jon didn’t listen. He sat stiff, unseeing.

 

Bran was the Three Eyed Raven…but could this be a mistake?

 

Lyanna Stark. Rhaegar Targaryen.

 

Jon blinked again. “What are you saying, Bran?”

 

Bran was calm as he repeated himself. “My vision showed me Aunt Lyanna marrying Rhaegar Targaryen in secret after they eloped. They had a son, but his birth killed her. Father was there, and he took this nephew in as his own son, afraid that Robert Baratheon would order the boy killed. It was you, Jon. It is you. You are Aegon Targaryen.”

 

Jon replayed the words in his mind, trying to make them make sense.

 

Sam came over and sat across from him. “Jon, listen to Bran. I know it’s hard to believe, but you are a Targaryen.”

 

Targaryen.

 

Targaryen.

 

Targaryen.

 

“Why did Father never tell me then?” Jon demanded, standing and gesturing around as though the room was Ned Stark personified.

 

“He was not your father,” Bran said. “He was your uncle.”

 

Jon now gestured to the door. “And why does no one else know this?”

 

Bran sighed, the most emotion Jon had seen from him yet. “Think about it, Jon.”

 

“Robert Baratheon’s betrothed eloped with a Targaryen, Jon,” Samwell tried. “A Targaryen. The family that Robert rebelled against in the first place. If he had known about their marriage and child after he was King, he would have had you killed. Lyanna wanted to make sure you were safe. And with her brother, at Winterfell, was the safest place.”

 

Jon stared into the fire for several minutes, trying to put the pieces together.

 

His mother wasn’t no one. His father wasn’t Ned Stark. His Father was a Targaryen.

 

He was a Targaryen.

 

Bran wasn’t his brother. Bran was his cousin. And Sansa and Arya and Robb and Rickon.

 

And Daenerys was…

 

Jon looked back at Bran. “Are you sure?”

 

His brother nodded solemnly. “I’ve seen it.”

 

For several moments, Jon sat in silence. Then he asked quietly, “What else have you seen?”

 

Bran held his stare unwavering, and Jon knew the answer without having to be told. He looked back to the fire.

 

This changed everything, yet nothing. There was still a war, and this would only cause complication. After it was over, if he was alive, he would figure it out. And if he wasn’t alive…then perhaps it would be for the best. But for now, for Daenerys…

 

"Call me Jon,” he told them with a stern eye. “And don’t speak of this to anyone.”

 

Sam nodded vigorously, relief loosening his taut features. Bran looked back into the fire.

 

Jon wondered whether his brother was second-guessing his decision. Maybe he hadn’t reacted right. He wasn’t sure how to react. He wasn’t sure there was a right way to react at all.

 

He wasn’t a bastard.

 

He wasn’t Jon Snow, or even Jon Stark.

 

He was…Aegon Targaryen.

 

Of House Targaryen.

 

Jon sank back onto the couch and was silent for a long time to come.


	7. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun writing this chapter! I hope you enjoy...
> 
> P.S. Happy New Year from Australia!

Sansa had been surprised to hear Jon and Bran talking in their father’s study.

 

She had been using it to receive messages and write replies while Jon was in Dragonstone. Her father’s study had begun to feel like her second room.

 

Sansa hadn’t been able to make out any of their words, but Jon and Bran’s voices were distinguishable through the thick wooden door. She had left them alone, deciding to do the paperwork later. No ravens bearing new messages or carrying their replies could fly in this snowstorm anyway.

 

So, Sansa had met with Ser Davos and the Winterfell armoury master. They discussed the manufacturing and transportation of the dragonglass weapons. Jon had already brought several crates of them from Dragonstone, and Sansa examined the obsidian blades and arrowheads. She had never seen a stone so dark, yet so translucent. It caught every ounce of light, glittering like a dark star. She was glad for her gloves, for the edges were as sharp as razors. But if they could kill the living dead, then Sansa was happy for them to be stacked ceiling-high throughout Winterfell.

 

Davos had talked her through their plans to dispense the weapons among the Unsullied, the Dothraki and the North, as well as the Lannisters when they arrived and the Wildlings when they returned. The mining of the glass and the forging of the weapons would continue down in Dragonstone for as long as need be. Sansa had nodded, instructing the armoury master to do as Ser Davos commanded.

 

After she had left them, then seen to more furs being distributed among the foreign armies, Sansa found some relief as she bathed and changed in the privacy of her room. She was fastening her cloak when a knock sounded at her door. Sansa eyed it curiously, then made her way over and cracked it open.

 

For a moment, surprise rendered her frozen on her threshold. Then she opened it wide.

 

Queen Daenerys stood in the hall with a smile-that-was-not-quite-a-smile on her beautiful face. Her white-silver hair was burnished gold in the sconce firelight. She had removed the sash of red fabric from across her shoulder and now wore a dragon necklace fashioned into an Ouroboros.

 

“What may I do for you, Your Grace?” Sansa asked, irritated that she was suddenly feeling meek in her simple, northern clothes.

 

Queen Daenerys looked past Sansa into her chambers, so Sansa stood aside and let her enter. She walked slowly into the room, then turned back around to face her.

 

“Please call me Daenerys,” she began.

 

Sansa walked over and sat down at her table, lighting the candles on top. Daenerys accepted the unspoken invitation as well and perched in the opposite seat.

 

“Daenerys,” Sansa murmured, as though she was testing the name on her tongue. Then she eyed the Queen. “Or perhaps Dany, as my brother does?”

 

To her credit, Daenerys didn’t even blink. “Daenerys please, Lady Stark. I believe it will do us good to be familiar during this war.”

 

Sansa nodded once. “Then you must call me Sansa.”

 

Daenerys smiled. “Sansa, then.”

 

They watched each other for a moment, then Daenerys turned her head and examined Sansa’s chambers. They were plainer than they had been when she was a girl, when dolls lined the shelves and embroidered cushions covered her bed. Now, it was just a place for rest.

 

Sansa wondered why Daenerys had come here alone.

 

She asked.

 

“I understand you weren’t too thrilled at the idea of hosting me,” Daenerys answered, looking back at her. “However, I wanted to tell you that Jon and I have come to an agreement.”

 

Sansa held back an unladylike snort. An agreement.

 

An agreement didn’t change anything. In fact, Sansa was sure it would make things worse.

 

“I see,” she said. “Well, I can imagine what that is.”

 

This time, Daenerys’ smile was pointed. “I thought you might. But I don’t want any of your Northern Lords imagining it. At least, not for the time being. I’m sure you can agree.”

 

Sansa did.

 

As long as Jon remained loyal to the North, then the North would fight this war without complaint, even with a ‘foreign’ queen and her claim to Westeros looming over them. Though it seemed to Sansa like the fate of life itself warranted a loyal army. But when Jon officially bent the knee, when he renounced his title as King of the North, Sansa wasn’t sure she would mind siding with the protesters.

 

“I do,” Sansa finally said. “But I will tell Arya, as I assume your court is aware too.”

 

Daenerys shrugged. “Tell anyone who you would trust with your life. I’ve come to learn that everyone else is better off in the dark.”

 

There was another silence, and Sansa tried to think of something else to say. She wasn’t finding Daenerys particularly stimulating company. “I’m sorry to hear about your dragon.”

 

Daenerys frowned. “Viserion is lost to me. He is now a threat and will greatly advantage the Night King in this war.”

 

Sansa saw right through Daenerys’ front. Losing a child was common in this world, but having it come back to haunt you as your enemy was something new entirely. And something that was going to happen more before this war was over.

 

Daenerys was watching the candlelight. “I’m sorry about your family.”

 

“Did Jon tell you about them?” Sansa asked.

 

Daenerys nodded. “He did. We’ve…”

 

“Become close?” Sansa took a sarcastic stab in the dark.

 

Daenerys didn’t look one bit ashamed. “Yes.”

 

Sansa stood abruptly then. “May I escort you to dinner, Daenerys?”

 

Daenerys rose from her seat, eyeing her carefully. “Please. I have things I need to discuss with Tyrion.”

 

Sansa led the way from her room, Daenerys one step behind.

 

“Though I’m sure you do too,” Daenerys added, voice full of smug finesse.

 

Sansa gritted her teeth. “My ex-husband is none of your concern.”

 

“On the contrary,” Daenerys stated. “My Hand is entirely my concern.”

 

Sansa wondered how this conversation had turned so contentious. They walked several minutes in silence.

 

“Let’s just focus on the problem at hand,” Sansa finished when they entered the Great Hall and approached the high table. “This war.”

 

Sansa took her seat beside Arya. Jon and Bran were nowhere to be seen, so she assumed they were still talking.

 

“Are you okay?” Arya asked quietly, sharp eyes picking up on the restrained stiffness between the two new arrivals. “What did she want?”

 

Sansa watched Daenerys take the guest seat opposite her and engage in conversation with Tyrion and Lord Varys.

 

“To talk about Jon,” she murmured to Arya.

 

Brienne, Sansa knew, hung on to every word in silence from her place beside Arya, pretending to be focused on her meal. Davos and Ser Mormont talked between themselves at the other end of the table.

 

“What about him?” Arya asked, and sipped from her cup.

 

Sansa pulled at a crust of bread. “Jon is going to bend the knee after this war, if only to keep the North banded together during it.”

 

Arya dropped her spoon.

 

It clattered into her bowl with a splash. Everyone looked over, but she waved away their stares.

 

“That can’t be,” Arya whispered, fierce-eyed. “Jon can’t mean it.”

 

Sansa noted that Brienne did not look surprised.

 

“We’ll talk about it with him later,” Sansa muttered, picking up her spoon. “But I think that he does.”

 

Arya scowled and looked down at her bowl, so Sansa went to her own.

 

“How do you fare, my dear,” Tyrion asked her a moment later from across the table.

 

His words were lacking their characteristic sarcasm and he gazed at her with sympathetic eyes.

 

“I’m fine, My Lord, thank you for asking,” Sansa stated tonelessly, sipping her wine. She didn’t feel like attempting a happy reunion after her chat with Daenerys.

 

Tyrion divided a curious look between her and his Queen but didn’t broach it.

 

Sansa smirked into her cup.

 

The door banged open across the hall, but it wasn’t Jon or Bran. The Hound strode in.

 

Sansa stiffened as Arya did.

 

He did not wear his sword but had thrown furs across his shoulders. He eyed everyone at the table before taking a seat beside Ser Mormont.

 

Arya stood, knocking back her chair. She made to leave, but the scarred man spoke after her.

 

“Do I still frighten you even now, she-wolf?” He asked, a mocking grin spreading his lips.

 

Arya stopped and gave him an exceptionally icy glare that even Sansa had to admire. “I promised Sansa I wouldn’t kill you, but that doesn’t mean I want to hear your voice.”

 

Sansa quickly looked down at her wine. She felt the Hound glance at her but didn’t dare acknowledge it. Arya left, steps fading as she disappeared out of the hall. Everyone else was quiet, observing the Hound in continued interest. He shrugged and filled his cup.

 

Sansa and Brienne ate together in silence, listening to conversation of the cities Daenerys and her court had left in Essos. Eventually, Lord Varys leaned around Daenerys and Tyrion to look at the Hound.

 

“Ser Clegane, I hear you and Lady Arya travelled together for months,” he asked, voice sly and all-knowing.

 

The Hound appeared momentarily surprised at the address. “Aye. Everyone worth ransoming her to was dying off.”

 

“You could have ransomed her to me,” Sansa spoke up, surprised at her herself for her abrupt interruption.

 

Clegane looked over at her. “And what could you have offered me in return?”

 

Sansa swirled her wine. “We’re Starks. You could have had anything you wanted.”

 

Clegane snorted, eyeing her like one might treat a naïve child. Sansa bristled.

 

“Anything that the Starks ever had to offer became the Boltons when they took Winterfell, and I wasn’t giving that girl over to them.”

 

Sansa didn’t have a response for that. Neither did anyone else, so Clegane went back to his meal with a frown.

 

Brienne shared a look with Sansa that again reminded her of what Clegane had told the knight in King’s Landing.

 

_I was only trying to protect her._

 

The evening passed, and Jon nor Bran appeared.

 

At one point, Daenerys stood and thanked Sansa for Winterfell’s hospitality. The Queen left the Great Hall with her court, Tyrion promising Sansa that they would speak later. She only nodded vaguely in response and sipped her wine.

 

Ser Davos and Brienne began talking about the Stormlands, and Sansa didn’t bother looking interested. She wanted to know what Jon and Bran were talking about. And more than that, she wanted to know why Jon had bowed to Daenerys. What had made him do it?

 

Littlefinger’s words kept replaying in her mind, and Sansa began to wonder whether the Dragon Queen’s beauty was about to doom the entire North.

 

Sansa stood from her seat, not wanting to think anymore.

 

“Goodnight, My Lady,” Brienne and Davos both said, then went back to their conversation.

 

Sansa rounded the table, bringing her cup of wine with her.

 

“I heard you conspired to kill Joffrey,” Clegane spoke up suddenly.

 

He had been silent for a long time, staring into the hearth. Even now, he gazed into the flames.

 

Sansa stopped next to him. “If I had only sliced his throat with my dinner knife before the poison finished him.”

 

Clegane looked up at her. “I’ll drink to that.”

 

Before she could move, he clinked her cup with his own and downed the rest of his wine. Then he looked back into the fire.

 

Sansa found herself smiling as she left the Great Hall, swallowing her wine as well.


	8. Bran

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Sorry for the wait. I've been researching and planning a story plot which is now waiting to be written (i'm super excited, so get pumped!). This chapter is shorter, but I hope you still enjoy. Give me suggestions for any special P.O.Vs you would like and I'll add a few in throughout the story!

Bran watched Jon stare at the fire until they were only smouldering embers.

 

Sam brought them dinner at some point but was the only one to eat any of it. Bran wasn’t hungry much these days. And Jon…

 

Well, Jon hadn’t moved a muscle since their conversation. He hadn’t stood. Hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t demanded for more information, or proof, from Bran.

 

So, when Sam had offered to wheel Bran back to his room, he hadn’t protested.

 

Bran was good at reading people. And with every minute on that couch he had seen Jon resolve a little more, preparing to leave the privacy of this room and go to war.

 

Once again, Bran wondered whether he had chosen the best timing. Now, he lay awake for half the long night, thinking about armies.

 

About the Night King and the Army of the Dead. About the Northerners and the Wildlings. About Daenerys and her eastern armies. About the Lannisters that were marching north.

 

But most of all, Bran thought about the Reed army. About Meera, who was among them.

 

Bran had given up trying to block her out. He had been successful for a matter of a week, until he had had a vision of her and Jojen as children. Then it had taken an active effort on his part to not think about her. A complete wipe of personality, so that some days all Bran was was the Three Eyed Raven, the waves of visions rendering him silent and reflective. And in the rare moments when he felt like himself, Bran knew he had treated Meera unfairly. Jojen, Hodor and Summer had given their lives for him. She had nearly given herself too. And he had turned her away.

 

Bran called to the guard outside his chambers. The armoured man didn’t ask questions as Bran told him to take him to the Godswood.

 

Winterfell was quiet this time of night. As he was rolled through the courtyard, Bran spotted Arya up on the battlements, silent and stealthy as a cat as she kept watch. He knew she marked him, marked the guard, but she didn’t call down, only went back to her watch.

 

Frigid specks of snow stung Bran’s cheeks and his wheels clacked loudly over the cobblestoned pathway that led down to the Godswood. Bran had the guard leave him by the Weirwood, but he knew the man didn’t dare wander far.

 

Bran looked up into the boughs of the tree. In the light of the full moon, the wood glowed white as milk. The face carved into the trunk looked like it spilt fresh tears. The red-leafed branches swayed gently in the snowy wind. The black pool was still, however, sucking in all the light and smothering it in its depths.

 

Bran breathed in the air, the taste and smell as familiar as the freckles on his own hands.

 

He let his eyes roll back.

 

…

 

_Tormund recognized the farm. They had stopped here on their way to Eastwatch. It was close to the Kingsroad. But now, in the snowstorm, he didn’t know which way was north, or south, or east, or west. If they left these barns they rested in, they would freeze. If they stayed, they would be found…_

_The Kingslayer galloped across the bridge. Bronn of the Blackwater rode at his side and a scattering of banner-less men followed them. The Twins were empty, their Lord and his sons slain. No help would come from here. Jaime pushed on. Winterfell was still two days north…_

_The barrowlands spread out to every horizon, snow coating its wild plains. Meera stood outside her father’s war tent, facing North. The storm would hinder them another day, but then they would arrive at Winterfell…_

_Karhold loomed dark and tall, before the darker and taller Grey Cliffs. A thunderous roar shattered the silence of the night, and thousands of icy blue eyes pinpricked the gloom. The yelling started, and then the fire burned blue, and then later, the wights rose…_

_A bonfire pierced the night sky. Its crackle was barely audible over the chanting of the Red Priestesses that circled it. Their prophecies were unintelligible, spoken in a foreign language. But they all rose up their arms, reaching, to a dark figure hovering like smoke above the fire. Its eyes burned orange. It held a glowing sword, red as rubies. It grinned, and flames erupted around its head like a crown…_

_The battlefield was a graveyard. The fight wasn’t even over, and already the fallen were covered in fresh snow. In the centre of the great plain, a man stood before the Night King, ruby sword in hand. This was the endgame._

 

Bran woke.

 

The guard knelt before him, hands shaking his shoulders.

 

“Stop,” Bran muttered, shrugging off his grip.

 

The guard stood hurriedly. “I couldn’t wake you, Milord. You’ve been like that for hours.”

 

Bran could see the panic in the man’s eyes. The visions had felt short, but as he looked up through the trees, the sky was the light grey of dawn.

 

“Take me to my brother,” Bran said.

 

There were things he needed to tell Jon before he left Winterfell.

 

Karhold. The Night King had taken Karhold. Jaime Lannister rode north to Winterfell. And the Red Priestesses, the ruby sword…

 

That hadn’t happened yet. But it would.

 

Bran closed his eyes. He was weary.


	9. Arya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I hope you enjoy this chapter. I had a lot of fun writing it.

Brienne of Tarth strode out into the courtyard of Winterfell, trailed by Podrick Payne.

 

Oathkeeper sat in its sheath at the golden-haired knight’s hip. Her squire carried a plain steel blade that was blunted at the tip.

 

“Where is she, Milady?” Podrick asked after a minute.

 

Brienne scanned the empty, snowy courtyard for Arya Stark. “She said she would be waiting at dawn.”

 

“Maybe she slept late?” he suggested, jabbing his sword mindlessly at the muddy ground.

 

“Don’t do that, Podrick,” Brienne said, giving him a jaded look. “And the last person in Winterfell who would sleep late is Lady Arya.”

 

They both started in alarm as a girl landed nimbly before them, crouched low to the ground to break her fall.

 

Arya Stark rose to her height and drew Needle. “Good morning.”

 

“Arya!”

 

Arya spun on her heel and looked up. Sansa was staring down at her from the veranda she had just vacated, stunned.

 

“What?” she asked, squinting against the glare of the silver sky.

 

Wide-eyed, Sansa opened and closed her mouth in disbelief, looking between her and Brienne and Podrick. “Y-you can’t just leap off verandas, Arya!”

 

Arya shrugged.

 

Brienne stepped forward. “I have to agree with Lady Sansa, Lady Arya. You could injure yourself.”

 

Arya just took her stance. “I’ve fallen further.”

 

Podrick sniggered, then straightened when Brienne shot him a silencing glare. Sansa released a long-suffering sigh from above.

 

Arya smirked.

 

Brienne drew Oathkeeper and came to stand before her. “Never underestimate the element of surprise, Podrick.”

 

Arya grinned, then advanced.

 

Brienne moved to meet her.

 

Their swords met once. Twice.

 

And then with a sharp flick of her wrist, Arya rapped Brienne along the knuckles.

 

Brienne snapped back her hand, growling in annoyance.

 

Arya gave her a sly look.

 

Brienne still hadn’t figured out how to block that move.

 

Arya felt, rather than saw, Podrick and Sansa hide their smiles. She hid hers and repositioned herself, bringing Needle back her side.

 

Brienne straightened with renewed determination. She approached her with graceless strides, Oathkeeper gripped in two hands.

 

Arya parried with just one.

 

Needle bounced delicately off its thick-bladed opponent, drawing Brienne into a stagger as she dealt her blow too hard. She lurched over but used the momentum of her fall to swing.

 

Arya danced out of the way, rounding Brienne and thwacking her across the back of her knees. The gap in her armour was just Needle’s fit.

 

Brienne hissed.

 

Arya grinned again. She was just playing, just keeping Brienne on her toes.

 

Arya glanced up at the veranda. Ser Davos had appeared and was now standing beside her sister, hands braced on the railing as he looked down upon them in amusement.

 

Swiftly, Brienne swung out.

 

Arya ducked, barely avoiding a bloody scratch across her cheek.

 

Oathkeeper whistled through empty air, tugging on Brienne’s arm, exposing the right side of her body.

 

Quick as a whip, Arya rose and pulled her dagger free, angling the blade up under Brienne’s arm.

 

Brienne stilled.

 

Match over.

 

Arya retreated with a grin.

 

“Nice move,” Brienne muttered, rising to her height.

 

“Armour may protect you,” Arya said, sheathing her dagger. “But it also weighs you down, makes you slow.”

 

“Aye, that is does,” Davos called down.

 

Arya spun Needle, smiling up at him. “Would you like a go, Ser Davos?”

 

Davos chuckled. “I’m nothing special with a sword, My Lady.”

 

Footsteps sounded down the veranda. Arya watched Daenerys and her court approach Sansa, bundled in winter furs. They stopped for morning greetings.

 

Brienne turned to Arya. “Again?”

 

Arya nodded, walking around to stand on less slippery ground. She eyed Brienne, waiting for her to make the first move.

 

Brienne brought Oathkeeper down in a powerful arc.

 

Arya deflected.

 

Brienne swung again.

 

Arya danced back.

 

She stayed light on her feet, angled sideways, free hand tucked behind her back like Syrio Forel had taught her.

 

Brienne swiped to Arya’s right.

 

Arya spun left, kicking the knight’s leg out from underneath her.

 

Brienne stumbled to a knee.

 

Arya circled her, Needle poised dangerously close to her neck.

 

Match over.

 

She grinned down at Brienne, who gave a disbelieving shake of her head.

 

“Have you been training while I was away?”

 

Arya shrugged. “Maybe.”

 

She helped Brienne to her feet.

 

“Water dancing,” a voice murmured from above.

 

Arya looked up.

 

Daenerys and Tyrion were giving her appreciative stares, but it was Ser Mormont who had spoken.

 

“You’ve been to Braavos?” Mormont asked her.

 

Arya nodded. “I have, but I learnt in King’s Landing. My teacher was a Braavosi.”

 

“And your sword?”

 

Arya gave her blade a twirl. “Needle.”

 

Tyrion laughed. “And a needle it is. I could do with one of those.”

 

A rough spoken voice sounded from beside Sansa. “It would still be taller than you.”

 

Sansa jumped, testament to the fact that the man’s approach had been silent.

 

Arya glared up at the Hound.

 

“Away with you, dog,” Tyrion said, waving his hand dismissively. “Don’t you have small, innocent babes to terrorise?”

 

“Aye, but you were first on my list,” the Hound retorted.

 

“Shut up,” Sansa snapped. “Both of you.”

 

Daenerys stepped forward, looking affronted. “I’ll not have my Hand spoken to that way.”

 

Sansa faced her, readying a reply.

 

Arya rolled her eyes and looked back at Brienne. “One more time?”

 

Brienne nodded.

 

They faced each other, Arya holding Needle behind her back, Brienne gripping Oathkeeper before her.

 

Brienne lunged as Arya spun.

 

She swung Needle up to meet Oathkeeper.

 

The sound of impact clamoured throughout the courtyard.

 

Arya gritted her teeth, holding fast against Oathkeeper.

 

Brienne was too strong, she realised.

 

The knight realised it too. Brienne grinned down at her, then twisted.

 

Arya was powerless to stop it as Needle was forced from her grip. It spun through the air and pinged against the wall, landing in a pile of snow.

 

Brienne was breathing heavily, Oathkeeper raised at the level of her eye. A victorious smile tugged her lips, but Arya wasn’t finished yet.

 

She gestured at Brienne to continue, and the knight hesitated only a moment before she attacked.

 

Arya ducked and dodged, evading every strike, dancing backwards as she led Brienne across the courtyard to the barrel of metal rods used for flying banners.

 

Arya watched as her plan dawned on Brienne, but it was too late.

 

She wrenched a rod free and swung.

 

Brienne parried, but the force sent Oathkeeper to the ground.

 

Arya gripped the rod like a staff. The last time she had used one was in Braavos, training with the Waif. She smiled, watching Brienne pick up her sword.

 

Their match was long.

 

Arya spent most of it barely avoiding cuts and grazes as she tried to work out the best way to use a staff against a sword.

 

But it seemed to come naturally, for the match finally ended in her victory. Oathkeeper lay in the mud, and Arya held her staff by Brienne’s head.

 

But the knight was grinning.

 

“Very impressive,” Davos called down.

 

Arya placed the rod back into the barrel and fetched Needle. She sheathed it and went to stand by Podrick. He handed her a water skin.

 

“Maybe I should train with you,” he murmured to her.

 

Arya smiled, and sipped the cold water. Brienne was talking with Mormont across the courtyard.

 

“Brienne is a great fighter,” Arya said. “You’re lucky she’s training you.”

 

Podrick nodded. “I know.”

 

Tyrion approached them, fur cloak trailing behind him in the snow.

 

“What a fighter you’ve become, my dear,” he greeted her.

 

“I was always a fighter,” Arya said, crossing her arms.

 

“Of course,” Tyrion smiled. “And are you a warrior now too, Pod?”

 

Podrick straightened. “Not yet, Milord.”

 

The chatter throughout the courtyard faltered as a great shadow passed over the sky.

 

Arya stilled, looking up.

 

A roar bellowed through the quiet morning, bound to wake any late sleepers.

 

Dragons.

 

Daenerys was coming down the stairs from the veranda, eyes scanning the sky. “Drogon,” she called.

 

The sound of great beating wings filled Arya’s ears, and a cold wind rushed past.

 

From the low cloud, the dragon emerged.

 

Arya stared.

 

It was black. Black as night, with blood-red wings. Spikes lined its spine, tipped its tail, crowned its head.

 

Drogon landed on the roof of a nearby tower, talons digging into the shingles. It roared again, then examined them all down below like they were breakfast.

 

Arya suppressed a shiver.

 

The creature was magnificent. But it was deadly.

 

“Daenerys.”

 

Arya spun around.

 

Jon came down from the veranda and approached the Queen. Daenerys looked at him.

 

“Would you mind?” Jon asked, eyeing Drogon and the roof on which he rested.

 

Shingles were shattering beneath the dragon’s talons and rolling off the turreted roof.

 

Daenerys smiled.

 

“Drogon,” she called again.

 

The dragon eyed its mother in a way that Arya could only describe as knowing. It roared one last time, then caught an updraft, sailing back into the cloud.

 

Arya released a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. She looked over at Sansa. Her sister met her eye, caution sharpening her gaze.

 

Sansa didn’t like these dragons, Arya realised. Or their mother.

 

“My apologies, Jon,” Daenerys said, turning to face him.

 

Arya thought Jon might have stood a little too close to Daenerys than necessary.

 

Sansa had come to her chambers last night, after dinner. She had told her about Jon and Daenerys, and Littlefinger’s warning.

 

Arya looked at Jon now, noted the way Daenerys looked at him. She frowned.

 

So, Sansa had been right.

 

Her eye caught on Bran coming through the opposite gateway. She walked over and replaced the guard who pushed his chair.

 

“Have you been in the woods all this time?” Arya asked him quietly.

 

Bran nodded. “I need to speak to Jon.”

 

Arya pushed him across the courtyard, and the others moved to gather around them. The Hound stood back, however, leaning against a nearby wall.

 

“News?” Sansa asked, coming to stand by Arya.

 

Bran nodded again. “The Wildlings are caught in a snowstorm. They’ve taken shelter at a farm off the Kingsroad. The farm you stopped at on your way to Hardhome.”

 

Jon nodded. “I know the one. We leave now.”

 

“That’s not all,” Bran said grimly.

 

There was a brief, expectant silence as Bran hesitated.

 

“What is it?” Daenerys asked sharply.

 

Arya saw Sansa eye the Queen with distaste.

 

“The Night King has taken Karhold, and its residents.”

 

Everyone tensed.

 

“If he’s made it that far south already, then we need to move quickly,” Jon said, turning to Brienne. “The horses?”

 

“Already saddled, Your Grace,” Brienne answered. She strode off toward the gates, the Hound moving to go with her.

 

Mormont peeled off to talk to Daenerys.

 

“Be careful,” Sansa told her and Jon. “And return swiftly.”

 

They all embraced, then Arya left with Jon for the gates.

 

Time to put training to the test.


	10. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry for the long wait. I've been busy getting ready for a holiday. I won't be able to upload from the 11th to the 26th of January - but fear not, I'll have plenty of time to write during those two weeks so there will be many uploads to come after. Enjoy this chapter...I hope Jon feels well written.

Jon swung up onto his horse and almost fell off the other side.

 

Everyone around him started as he swayed, but he managed to pull himself upright and shrug it off.

 

Arya eyed him from atop her white mare. “Are you alright?”

 

Jon straightened his cloak. “I’m fine.”

 

He wasn’t fine. He hadn’t slept and was already regretting it. He had sat in that room, on that couch, all night.

 

Sam had rekindled the fire at some point, then tentatively told him Gilly was waiting and that he should go.

 

Jon had wondered if Daenerys was waiting for him.

 

He couldn’t face her yet. At least, not in that way.

 

But when dawn broke and Jon emerged onto the veranda, when he saw everyone watching Arya and Brienne training, when Drogon appeared and Dany went to meet him, he knew he had to face her.

 

This was war, and he couldn’t hide away.

 

But he could hide the truth, for now. He knew Sam and Bran would keep the secret.

 

Jon had halted upon seeing Arya down in the courtyard with Brienne. She was sparring with Needle. And she was…good.

 

Very good.

 

She no longer bounced on the balls of her feet, eager for an opportunity to try and prove herself. She was sure-footed and calm. Controlled.

 

Brienne rained down upon her with powerful blows. Arya just deflected with a flick of her wrist. The two fighting styles were so different, each struggling for dominance. Mormont had called it water dancing. It was a fitting name. Arya stepped and twirled, light on her feet, looking for all the world like she was moving to music.

 

Jon had always known Arya was a fighter. But upon seeing Needle again, the sword he had gifted to her, he marvelled at her survival these past five years.

 

But they still had to survive this war.

 

Arya, Brienne, Mormont and Clegane gathered around him on their horses, each laden with supplies and weapons.

 

“We’ll take the Kingsroad north,” Jon said. “We should reach Tormund in a day and a half.”

 

They nodded and turned around to face the gates. Jon moved his horse to trot, but someone called out his name.

 

“Jon.”

 

Dany was approaching his horse, hands clasped before her in that way that made her look regal. “May I speak with you for a moment?”

 

His travelling party hesitated beneath the gate, eyeing the two of them.

 

“Go ahead, I’ll catch up,” Jon said.

 

The Hound rolled his eyes, then spurred his stallion into a gallop. Brienne rode after him. Arya and Mormont lingered a moment longer, the former watching him and the latter staring at Dany.

 

“Go,” Jon pushed. “I’ll only be a minute.”

 

Arya gave one last unsubtle frown to Dany then turned and rode through the gate. Mormont followed her.

 

Jon swung down from his horse.

 

“What is it?”

 

Dany blinked.

 

Jon cursed his bluntness. He had to keep up appearances, if everyone was to remain oblivious.

 

“Sorry,” he added, smiling. “I didn’t sleep last night.”

 

Dany smirked. “You didn’t come to me.”

 

“I was talking with Bran,” Jon said, watching her white hair glisten like snow.

 

“As is your right.” Dany stepped closer to him.

 

Jon glanced around the courtyard. Apart from Missandei, who stood waiting by the far archway, the others had returned inside.

 

“Maybe when you return,” Dany hinted. Her eyes were glowing with quiet suggestion.

 

Jon tried to smirk, but it didn’t really work. “Maybe.”

 

An awkward silence grew between them, the first there had been in a while. It discomforted him, and from the way Dany looked down and stepped away, he could tell it also startled her.

 

“What were you talking about?” Dany didn’t look at him as she asked the question.

 

Lyanna Stark. Rhaegar Targaryen. Aegon Targaryen.

 

“Father,” Jon said.

 

Dany let her hands fall to her side. “I spoke with your sister last night.”

 

Jon frowned. “Sansa?”

 

Dany nodded.

 

“What about?” Jon asked warily.

 

“I told her about our agreement.”

 

Jon watched Dany look up at him. Her eyes were more silver than violet in the dawn light.

 

“I bet she didn’t like that,” Jon murmured, running a hand through his hair.

 

Dany shook her head. “No, but I think she already suspected. She knows it needs to be kept quiet.”

 

Jon didn’t dare let his face betray his thoughts.

 

Daenerys was not the true heir to the iron throne as everyone believed.

 

He was.

 

He hated knowing it. He hated thinking it. It felt like a betrayal. It felt wrong.

 

He didn’t want to be king of Westeros. He didn’t want to be a Targaryen.

 

He wanted to be Jon Snow.

 

So he could be with Dany. So he could be with Arya and Sansa and Bran, in Winterfell.

 

Perhaps he could keep it a secret forever.

 

“You should go,” Dany finally said.

 

With nothing more he could think to say, Jon nodded. He made to turn, but then Dany stepped up and kissed him.

 

It was swift, so he didn’t have to force himself to react. He didn’t even know how he would have done so. If he would have broken the kiss, or if he would have pulled her closer.

 

“I’ll see you soon,” Jon said, then pulled himself up into his saddle.

 

Jon didn’t look back, but he felt Dany watching him as he rode out of Winterfell.


	11. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I'm back from a holiday in New Zealand (which is such a beautiful country, btw) so it's time for more Game of Thrones! Enjoy this chapter...

A day passed.

 

Sansa spent it with Davos, planning. Daenerys kept Tyrion and Varys busy with her eastern armies and her dragons and quite possibly her plans for conquering Westeros. But this was convenient for Sansa because it meant she didn’t have to actively try and avoid them. Bran was shut away, like always, only talking with Sam. And Arya and Brienne were with Jon and Mormont and Clegane.

 

So, it was just her and Davos, talking about dragonglass and stock supplies.

 

Until Jaime Lannister arrived.

 

It was breakfast on the second day. An awkward breakfast. Bran had not appeared, and Davos was conversing with Varys about a Red Priestess called Melisandre. Sansa sat in silence, wishing for anyone to talk to who was not Daenerys or Tyrion, the latter of which, for no reason she could think of and to her great annoyance, kept eyeing her with pity. She would have even welcomed conversation with Clegane at this point.

 

But then the doors to the Great Hall banged open and a dozen Winterfell guards escorted the Kingslayer and Ser Bronn of the Blackwater inside. They were followed by a herd of fuming northern lords that did not look happy to see them.

 

Sansa stood.

 

As did Davos and Daenerys and Tyrion and Varys.

 

The Kingslayer wasn’t smiling, or smirking, or doing anything but looking up at them with a grim frown. Bronn stood beside him, hands on his sword belt. He tugged his arm from a guard’s grip.

 

“Silence,” Sansa spoke down to the seething lords. They quieted their protesting and crossed their arms against the far wall.

 

When it looked like no one else was going to say anything in her place as Lady of Winterfell – which both pleased and unnerved her – Sansa rounded the table.

 

“Jaime Lannister.”

 

The Kingslayer had changed since she had last known him. He was no longer a golden knight in shining armour, with a proud swagger and a charming air. He had darkened in appearance, and in many other ways too, Sansa guessed. Lines had appeared around his eyes and he looked tired. His gold hand was dull in the room’s dim lighting.

 

At the address, Jaime shared a look with Bronn. A look that seemed to convey bad news.

 

He faced Tyrion when he finally spoke. “Cersei lied to us all. She will not honour the truce. She is not sending her forces north.”

 

Sansa felt Tyrion stiffen. She felt the room stiffen. She wasn’t surprised, knowing Cersei, though it sickened her to hear it confirmed.

 

“Are you surprised, Tyrion,” she asked. It was the first thing she had said to him in two days.

 

Tyrion eyed her, then his brother, and shook his head helplessly. “I truly thought she wanted to live.”

 

Jaime approached, and no one moved to stop him. “Cersei is a lost cause. I’ve come where I’m needed.”

 

“And what makes you think you are needed here?” Daenerys asked.

 

Jaime ignored her, looking at Sansa and Tyrion purposefully. “I was tricked. And so were you. Euron Greyjoy has not returned to the Iron Islands. He sails to Essos to bring back the Golden Company for Cersei’s army.”

 

A ripple of shock electrified the room. Daenerys turned to Varys, who looked uncharacteristically startled. The northern lords started shouting again.

 

Sansa had heard Littlefinger speak of the Golden Company once. They were the largest sellsword company in the Free Cities. And now they were Cersei’s.

 

Bronn spoke up loudly, cutting through the ruckus. Walking up to the high table, he poured himself a cup of wine. “We don’t have to worry about Cersei for now. She plans to pick the remainder of us off after we’ve defeated the dead for her. Not before.”

 

He smiled at them all like that resolved the issue.

 

“If we defeat the dead,” Davos muttered.

 

“And why should we trust you?” Sansa turned back to Jaime. She had never seen him this serious.

 

Before he could answer, Tyrion went to stand beside him. “I believe him. I believe Cersei would be this blind.”

 

Daenerys frowned and sat down heavily. It was the most un-queenly thing Sansa had seen her do. “Then we’ll have to be ready for her.”

 

“Two consecutive wars,” Varys said, more to himself than anyone else. He shook his head, staring off into the middle distance.

 

There was a moment of heavy silence.

 

“I’ve come to fight,” Jaime declared suddenly. He drew his sword.

 

Widow’s Wail, Brienne had said it was called. Twin to Oathkeeper, it was forged from the same Valyrian steel that had once been Ice, Sansa’s father’s sword.

 

"I vow to fight for not just Winterfell, but all the seven kingdoms as well, in your name, until this war…and the next, is done.”

 

Sansa noticed that Jaime didn’t specify to whom he swore.

 

Daenerys came to stand beside her. “There is no need to vow, Jaime Lannister. I know you will fight. For if you do not, there will be no seven kingdoms left.”

 

Jaime nodded, sheathing his sword.

 

“Nor castles,” Bronn added as an afterthought.

 

“You may leave,” Sansa dismissed the lords.

 

They filed out angrily, glaring at Jaime with more ice than that which covered the frozen lakes in the Godswood. No doubt the tale of Jaime Lannister’s arrival and pledge of fealty would spread among the northmen this day, most likely a biased retelling in negative light. Sansa would see that it didn’t rile them up later.

 

Tyrion went to join Bronn. “And why have you come, Ser Bronn?”

 

Bronn shrugged, pulling at a chicken leg from the table. “I don’t really know, to be honest. I should be running as far south as south goes.”

 

Tyrion laughed.

 

“He really wants his castle,” Jaime said, smiling for the first time.

 

Sansa gestured at the table, giving him permission to sit. He gave her a grateful nod, but Sansa noticed something like remorse lingering behind his eyes.

 

They all took their seats and breakfast continued, just as awkward as before. Tyrion briefly filled Jaime and Bronn in on the Night King’s new location, but that just made the uncomfortable silence even more tense. Jaime didn’t touch any food, as though he thought he didn’t have the right. Bronn was perfectly happy to indulge, however, and polished off two whole bowls of porridge before Sansa even made a dent in one.

 

“And where is the king?” Jaime asked at last, like the thought had been with him awhile.

 

The way he said “king” surprised Sansa. He said it with respect.

 

Daenerys looked about to answer but was cut off.

 

“Jon is bringing the Wildlings back to Winterfell.”

 

Bran entered the hall, his chair pushed by Sam. Gilly – whom Sansa had not yet come to know well – walked beside them with her child.

 

Jaime Lannister turned in his seat at her brother’s voice. And when he saw Bran coming toward him, motionless in his wheeled chair with a face like stone, he paled.

 

Sansa shifted a seat so that Bran could be beside her at the table. Jaime didn’t stop watching her brother as he came to sit before him.

 

“I saw your crossing at the Twins, Jaime Lannister,” Bran said.

 

Of course he had. Sansa felt a brief stab of annoyance at her little brother. A warning would have been nice.

 

If Jaime was confused at this, he didn’t show it. He was still pale, still staring at Bran with a mixed intensity that Sansa did not understand. Tyrion was eyeing the two of them beneath a lowered brow, as if he was aware of something between them that could potentially start an argument.

 

“Don’t worry,” Bran said to Jaime eventually. He almost sounded like he was teasing. “Your secret is safe with me.”

 

Startled at that, Jaime’s brows rose high, and he looked like he was about to be sick. Sansa opened her mouth to ask what was happening, but the doors across the hall banged opened again.

 

Sansa wanted to scream.

 

Was this to be her life now, as Lady of Winterfell. Interrupted every moment of the day by banging doors?

 

She stood to wave away what was most likely a complaining lord, but a man who was unfamiliar to her walked through the doors, followed by several armoured men with black lizard-lions adorning the grey-green banners they carried.

 

House Reed.

 

A girl came at the man’s side. A girl Sansa recognised.

 

She looked down at Bran, but found her brother also looking at the newcomers.

 

Meera Reed.

 

And her father, Howland Reed.


	12. Bran

If Jojen Reed had lived for another thirty years he would have been the mirror image of Howland Reed.

 

The glance that Bran spared the Lord of Greywater Watch revealed the same tall, handsome man with sandy blonde hair from the day Aunt Lyanna died.

 

But it was Meera who Bran looked to.

 

It had only been several weeks since she left Winterfell, but it felt like a lifetime ago, especially with all the lives he had been witnessing in visions since then. The only thing that had changed was the colour of the furs she wore, no longer the mottled grey from beyond the Wall, but dark like her hair.

 

“Thank you for coming, Meera,” Bran said, his voice carrying across the hall.

 

Meera glanced at him, then those gathered around the high table. She looked momentarily daunted, but she covered it up, glancing at her father.

 

“So, this is Brandon Stark?” Howland Reed spoke, eyes finding him across the hall.

 

Bran wasn’t sure who he was asking, but Meera answered anyway.

 

“Yes.”

 

Everyone was watching him now, and Bran wondered what Lord Reed thought of the boy whom his only children had left home to find, one never returning.

 

Sansa spoke then. “House Reed. You’ve come to Winterfell?”

 

Howland looked behind him, nodding at his men. They saluted and exited the hall, once again emptying the room of a crowd. When Howland turned back around he was smiling. “Aye, it looks like it.”

 

The cheek with which he spoke made Bran smile. Meera looked to be restraining an eyeroll.

 

Howland grinned and approached them like an old friend. “You have your mother’s beauty, Lady Sansa.”

 

“You knew our father well?” Sansa asked, gesturing for them to sit.

 

Meera sat down quietly next to Bran, offering him a small smile. He gave her one in return, though a tension taughtened it. He once again remembered how he had turned her away.

 

“One of my closest friends, Ned was,” Howland was saying, sitting down beside Jaime Lannister. He gave the knight and his golden hand an impartial stare, but Bran was sure he knew who he was.

 

“Indeed then, thank you for coming,” Sansa said, a true smile breaking across her face.

 

Perhaps, Bran thought, Sansa felt like this was the first trustworthy ally that had offered their services in this war.

 

Daenerys and her court were introduced and both Howland and Meera gave them marvellously uninspired stares. Then Tyrion spoke of Cersei Lannister’s betrayal and the Army of the Dead’s new position. Meera tensed up all over at talk of the Night King and Bran was sure that all the memories of the day her brother was killed were making appearances.

 

“You’ve seen him, haven’t you?” Davos asked Meera. “The Night King.”

 

Meera looked startled at the address. “I – I have.”

 

Howland watched his daughter worriedly. Bran wondered how much Meera had told him about their time beyond the Wall.

 

“And?” Tyrion and Jaime asked simultaneously.

 

Meera searched for the right words. “And I don’t think he’s going to be ended easily.”

 

Bran met her eyes, and shared understanding passed between them. He now knew that the Night King possessed the same ability he did, and that that could make him nearly impossible to kill. But Bran had seen something red and burning in his visions. Something that could melt the dragonglass buried deep in the Night King’s chest.

 

“I would speak to you soon, Lord Reed,” Bran turned to him. “About the day my Aunt Lyanna died.”

 

Everyone eyed him curiously, but none so much as Howland. He lowered his cup slowly, mouth open in surprise. Meera glanced between them with a frown.

 

“Did you tell him?” Bran turned to her when Howland didn’t respond.

 

Meera nodded.

 

“Aye, she did,” Howland said finally, setting his cup down. “I know of the power you possess.”

 

Bran smiled. “Power is an interesting word to describe it.”

 

Howland stared at him intently, striking Bran as the type of person who, beneath the smiles and playful dramatics, was armed with an intelligent mind.

 

“You can see what has happened and what will happen,” Howland stated finally. “I think that is very powerful.”

 

Meera shot her father a look which made him shrug and lean back. “I will speak with you, Brandon.”

 

Bran nodded. “Sam will join us.”

 

Sam looked up from where he was feeding Little Sam with Gilly. “O-Of course.”

 

Bran felt Sansa sit up straight, and knew she wanted to join them too. But it was not for him to reveal Jon’s secret. She would have to wait.

 

Their breakfast ended with Tyrion stating that Jaime and Bronn would do good with some rest. Sansa went to show them to their rooms and the eastern court left to start dispersing dragonglass daggers among the Unsullied and the Dothraki. Davos left to see about the Reed forces, and the Lord of Greywater Watch swiftly kissed his daughter on the head before following him.

 

Meera and Bran sat at the table, Sam and Gilly and Little Sam down the other end.

 

“Have the day for yourself,” Bran told him.

 

Sam was always beside him, pushing his chair, bringing his meals. Bran didn’t remember ever asking it of him, but Sam seemed to want to help nonetheless.

 

“Are you sure?” Sam asked, looking between him and Gilly.

 

“Of course.”

 

They left the hall happily, swinging Little Sam between them.

 

Finally, he was alone with Meera. He watched her find something to say.

 

“It wasn’t easy convincing my father to leave Greywater,” Meera said eventually.

 

“But you did.”

 

“He told me our place was there, to guard the border between the North and the Riverlands. I told him there would be no North nor Riverlands if we didn’t come and fight.”

 

Bran smiled. “I saw you coming.”

 

“We would have sent word, but no raven could fly in the storms. And you make a good messenger anyway.”

 

Bran hadn’t told anyone, though. And it appeared Meera knew that from the way she was looking at him.

 

“These visions can be helpful, Bran. You shouldn’t always keep them to yourself.”

 

Bran remembered Jojen always mentioning the visions he had had, helpful or not, sometimes completely random and irrelevant.

 

“I shouldn’t have left,” Meera said after a while. "It’s just you and I, now."

 

Bran watched her wipe away silver that suddenly lined her eyes, looking appalled with herself.

 

"Jojen was taken from you," he said gently. "And Hodor and Summer were taken from me. It was just us, and then I pushed you away. I'm sorry."

 

Meera shook her head. "It's okay.”

 

Bran shook his head. “It isn’t.”

 

Meera took a breath, seemingly bracing herself. “Bran, I feel like I know you. Like you're the only one you knows me, knows what I've been through. And I…want to stay with you, so I'm not alone, and all I have are the memories of what happened these past three years."

 

Bran reached over and took her hand. "You won't feel alone again. I want you to stay too."

 

Meera's grin was short-lived, but it lit up her face and made Bran smile as well.

 

“You can be my arrow, if you want.”

 

Meera looked down at his hand on hers. “I hope you won’t need one. But if you ever do…I’ll be your arrow.”


	13. Arya

Arya snuggled her chin deeper into the collar of her woollen vest, and looked around the plains and plains of barren land stretching to every horizon, interrupted by sparse clusters of frozen woods.

 

The day was clearer, thankfully, and their horses were making good progress north. But they had been slowed greatly the day before by a snowstorm wilder than that which Arya had ever seen. Wind had ripped at them. Sleet had soaked them to the bone. And the endless snow had buried their horses up to their knees.

 

The five of them hadn’t been able to talk over the howling winds, using gestures to communicate and point out directions. There had been no time to find shelter and wait out the storm, so they had ridden all day and night, their northern-bred horses withstanding the elements. What remained of the storm now was only a cold breeze below the grey skies, and an icy road.

 

Arya rode beside Jon, her bottom starting to ache from a full day in her saddle. They would have to stop soon, for pure survival purposes.

 

“We haven’t seen each other for five years, and then we ride a whole day together without speaking,” Jon mused aloud.

 

Arya grinned. “Nothing’s ever easy.”

 

Up ahead, Clegane snorted. Alongside him, Brienne smiled too. Mormont rode further ahead, blonde head obscured behind his hood.

 

“You’ve gotten good with Needle.” Jon eyed her sword at her hip.

 

Arya patted the hilt. “It was stolen from me, you know.”

 

He looked at her in surprise. “Stolen?”

 

She nodded. “Before I was taken to Harrenhal."

 

At the mention of those dreaded lands, Jon looked murderous. “You were taken to Harrenhal?”

 

“When I was with Yoren and his recruits, we were ambushed by Gold Cloaks. They took us prisoner.”

 

Jon grimaced. “I’m sorry, Arya.”

 

“I am too,” she said, thinking back to the worst year of her life. The crumbling stone walls that had towered toward the sky, still so large despite having been ruined by dragon fire. And the Lannisters within those walls…they had been worse than the ghosts that haunted them. “Anyway, I escaped, and then a year later I found the man and took Needle back.”

 

Jon smiled, but it was tinged with regret and concern. “After learning what became of this Lord Baelish, I bet that didn’t end well for the man.”

 

“No, it didn’t,” Arya said. No point in pretending she hadn’t killed that piece of shit.

 

Jon peered around for a minute, scanning for the road that was half-hidden beneath snow. The farm would now be another day’s ride, when it should have only been half.

 

“When did you learn to use it so well?” Jon asked eventually.

 

Arya flexed her frozen fingers. “In King’s Landing father hired Syrio Forel to teach me. He was the best swordsman in Braavos. But he was killed when father was taken prisoner.”

 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to come to you, when it happened,” Jon murmured, sounding haunted.

 

“You swore an oath to the Night’s Watch,” Arya replied. “You couldn’t break it.”

 

“Aye, but I did eventually,” he said. “I could’ve done it then.”

 

Arya shook her head. “It would have been different then, if you’d broken the oath. You would have been killed.”

 

Jon looked like he was going to argue, but said something else. “And then you ran?”

 

“Well, little Arya wasn’t sticking around to be taken hostage,” she said. “But I was silly then…I should have stayed with Sansa.”

 

“Then you wouldn’t have been able to keep Needle,” Jon reasoned. He eyed her. “Becoming that good with a sword doesn’t take a few lessons, even with an expert swordsman. It takes practice…lots of practice. Where else did you learn?”

 

“Braavos.”

 

Jon smiled. “I’m starting to think you’ve been through more than I have these past five years.”

 

Arya shrugged. “I wouldn’t disagree, but we’d have to sit down and tally.”

 

They laughed.

 

Arya looked at Jon, wanting to let out everything that had happened to her since that fateful day they had left Winterfell. All the places she had been, all the people she had known.

 

“All you should know for now…at least until this mess is over, is that I spent a long time in Braavos training, so I could take revenge. Revenge on everyone who has ever hurt our family. And it has changed me Jon. But, I’m still Arya to you.”

 

Jon looked sad as he contemplated this, but then he met her eye. “And you should know that I’m still Jon, no matter my title or birth.”

 

“What do you mean your birth?” Arya asked, frowning.

 

He stilled, eyes shifting down to his reigns. “Just that no matter what I’ve done or what I’ll have to do…I’m still Jon for you.”

 

Arya wasn’t convinced, but she knew she should drop it. “Okay.”

 

They rode along for another minute, listening to snippets of Clegane and Brienne’s conversation that were carried back on the wind. She looked over at Jon, wondering if this was a good time to ask. She supposed it was as good as any.

 

“I wanted to talk to you about Daenerys.”

 

Jon’s mouth tightened, the only unease he let show. “What about her?”

 

“Why did you bend the knee? Why give up the North?”

 

She didn’t think she had sounded whiny in asking, but Jon sighed before he answered.

 

“Arya, to win this war, we can’t isolate ourselves away in Winterfell. Westeros needs to work together. Allies need to be formed.”

 

“I understand that.”

 

“And Daenerys…she is a good person, a just queen. With armies. Perhaps a little inexperienced, no different than I, but she has good intentions. And a good heart.”

 

As he spoke, Arya saw his eyes glaze over, like he was seeing Daenerys before him.

 

“So, you think she should take the iron throne then? Rule Westeros?”

 

Jon snapped out of it.

 

And Arya watched him take too long to reply.

 

“I think she would rule well.”

 

That wasn’t an answer, Arya wanted to point out. But she didn’t.

 

“Don’t you think that if Daenerys had a good heart, she would let the North be independent. Like we’ve wanted for so long. Like, I think, we need?”

 

“Perhaps, Arya, when this war is over, and Cersei is defeated…perhaps she’ll let the North be.”

 

A particularly cold breeze floated past, and Arya’s teeth clattered. She stroked her mare’s neck. “We need to stop.”

 

Jon didn’t even hesitate. He swung down from his horse and called out to the others. They rode back hurriedly.

 

“We stop for an hour,” Jon said.

 

They all nodded, faces betraying their relief. They stretched out and watered the horses. Beside them stood a graveyard of trees. Dead branches were waiting to be burned, so Jon and Brienne left to collect wood for a fire. Clegane stood, brushing down the horses, while Arya and Mormont unpacked food.

 

“I haven’t seen water dancing in a long time,” Mormont said suddenly. He was looking at her.

 

Arya gave him a polite smile. After all, she didn’t really know him.

 

“You’ve trained at the House of Black and White, haven’t you?” he said.

 

Clegane whipped his head towards them.

 

Arya looked up from the sack in her hands. “Why do you say that?”

 

Mormont grinned at her. “I’ve met a number of silent assassins. You have their air, and their training.”

 

Clegane was looking at her, face expressionless.

 

“I have,” Arya admitted.

 

Mormont went back to placing out rations, looking somewhat pleased with himself. But then he asked, somewhat mockingly, “Do you change faces too?”

 

Arya glanced at Clegane. He was back to brushing the horses, but his grey eyes were narrowed as he listened on. She eyed Mormont stonily.

 

“Do you think Walder Frey poisoned his own men?” she finally asked.

 

They both looked up in shock.

 

“You killed Walder Frey?” Clegane asked roughly.

 

“And took his face?” Mormont added disbelievingly.

 

Arya nodded.

 

Clegane turned back around, shoulders set. Mormont just kept eyeing her curiously. Jon and Brienne returned, arms laden with branches. They built a fire and ate dried meat and fruit. Then Jon and Mormont consulted a map while Brienne sharpened Oathkeeper.

 

Arya stared at the flames, trying to soak up every ounce of warmth she could. She saw Clegane stand and walk around the fire. He sat down next to her, leaning back on his hands.

 

“I thought you would kill me that day.”

 

Arya hugged her knees. “I nearly did. But I thought it would be crueller not to.”

 

“Aye, it was crueller.”

 

She looked at him. “But you didn’t die.”

 

“A friend saved me.”

 

“A friend?” she said, incredulous.

 

“Aye, a friend,” he said harshly.

 

Arya shrugged. “Alright, a friend. And then what?”

 

“And then I lived a fucking normal life until it was fucked up again,” he said. “And now I’m here, helping your brother, probably gonna get killed for it.”

 

“Probably.”

 

Clegane eyed her. “But not you, she-wolf. You’re an assassin now. All sly and dangerous. Not easy to kill, are you?”

 

“You can give it a go if you like.”

 

“I’ll pass. I’ve heard of the silent assassins. Trained fuckers, the lot of you.”

 

Arya smiled.

 

They sat in silence for a minute, and for the first time, the silence wasn’t uncomfortable, or tense. She watched the flames flicker shadows across his scarred face. He wasn’t as gruesome as she remembered, as though this apparent “fucking normal life” had changed him…healed him, in some way.

 

“I spoke with Sansa,” she said.

 

Clegane didn’t even look away from the fire. She had to admit, he was good at hiding his emotions, most of the time.

 

“And she told me that you did help her in King’s Landing.”

 

He smiled to himself, most likely remembering the time he had told her that and she hadn’t believed him.

 

“You’re not on my list anymore.”

 

Clegane looked at her. “I don’t think I’ve been on your list for a while.”

 

Arya stilled. “I – don’t push it. Sansa made the decision for me. Go thank her.”

 

Clegane shrugged. “Maybe I will.”

 

Jon stood, and Arya hid her disappointment. Time to go.

 

“We’re wasting time,” Jon said. “We need to leave.”

 

They stamped out the fire and packed up. The horses didn’t complain as they were saddled and mounted, and Arya marvelled once again at their willpower. They left their camp behind and continued north.

 

Dear god, Arya hoped Tormund Giantsbane hadn’t left that farm. If he had, she didn’t know what they were going to do.


	14. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So...hello everyone. I'm back on the internets, very pissed and very relieved. It crashed at my place so I couldn't access it, and then everywhere else I went to try and upload it wouldn't work for some reason. AAAAAHHHHH! But finally the next chapter has made it online. Sorry for the wait...and enjoy!

In the snowy darkness orange light glowed behind barn doors.

 

Fifty paces away, under a copse of frozen trees and crouched behind a sagging, wooden fence that surrounded the abandoned farm, Jon held up a hand. The others halted beside him.

 

Just because there was someone in those barns keeping warm, it didn’t mean it was still Tormund and the Wildlings.

 

He looked across at Arya. She nodded once and slipped through the fence, darting across the snow on silent feet, keeping to the shadows. Against the wall of the barn, she climbed onto a wagon, then a barrel, and peered through a small window. After a moment, she leapt off and landed quietly on her feet. Jon couldn’t help comparing her to a cat.

 

“It’s them,” she called, beckoning them over with a wave.

 

An arrow landed at her feet with a thud.

 

Arya spun, looking around wildly. Jon and the others lunged forward, hands reaching for the hilts of their swords. Arrows nipped at their own boots, and they halted.

 

“Make yourselves known.” A rough voice shouted from the roof of the barn.

 

Arya answered, loud and clear. “Arya, of House Stark. With my brother Jon, King in the North.”

 

There was a brief silence. And then three figures who had been hiding in the shadows on the roof appeared, arrows nocked in their bows.

 

“Jon Snow, thank the gods,” the tall one spoke.

 

Jon breathed a sigh of relief. It was the Wildlings.

 

“Aye, it’s me,” he said. He let go of his sword and approached, Clegane, Mormont and Brienne doing the same. “We’re glad to find you alive.”

 

One of them jumped down from the roof, the other two returning to the shadows to keep watch. Jon recognised her wild mane of yellow hair.

 

“Tormund?” He asked.

 

“Inside,” she nodded at the barn door. “Come in.”

 

One hundred Wildlings huddled in the barn, one hundred more in the next. They looked exhausted, staring blearily up at the newcomers as they passed. At the back of the crowded barn, Tormund and Beric were sitting close together by a fire. They stood abruptly when they saw them approach.

 

“Jon Snow,” Tormund breathed, a grin breaking across his face. He lumbered forward, and they embraced tightly.

 

“How did you find us?” Beric asked, relief colouring his voice.

 

Jon smiled. “My brother, Bran, saw you here.”

 

They stared at him, confused.

 

“A story for the journey back to Winterfell,” Jon said. “We need to leave as soon as you can.”

 

Tormund nodded. “Aye, we’re all tired, but we’ll go now.”

 

He grinned at Brienne standing beside Clegane. Then he looked at Arya. “Your sister?”

 

Jon nodded.

 

“A pretty one.”

 

Arya sketched a bow, sharing a smirk with Brienne.

 

“Will you go tell the others we’re leaving,” Jon asked Clegane.

 

The Hound nodded and left for the second barn, Arya joining him.

 

“You saw it then?” Jon asked. “The Wall come down?”

 

Tormund and Beric exchanged dark frowns.

 

“We saw it, and let me tell you, we’re lucky to be here,” Beric said. “There were hundreds of thousands, led by the King on Viserion. Viserion, Jon, dead but still breathing fire.”

 

“We knew this would happen,” Mormont muttered from behind them.

 

“Maybe we did,” Jon agreed. “But we didn’t know the King would bring down the Wall like that. And this soon.”

 

“How did you find out?” Tormund asked curiously.

 

“Bran,” Jon said again.

 

Brienne stepped forward. “The Night King has taken Karhold, too.”

 

“I thought he would follow us,” Beric sighed. “But it seems he has a different plan.”

 

“That’s why we need to get back to Winterfell as soon as possible,” Jon said, then turned to face the Wildlings. “Listen up. I know your weary, but the sooner we get back to Winterfell, the sooner you can rest safer.”

 

They didn’t complain. They nodded and rose, dousing the fires and filing out into the snow.

 

Jon looked around then. “Where’s Gendry?”

 

Tormund frowned. “Not with you?”

 

“No,” Jon said slowly. “What makes you say that?"

 

“The boy left for Dragonstone a few days after you,” Beric said. “Said he was better use making weapons than watching on the Wall.”

 

“He sent no word,” Mormont told them.

 

“Well, he isn’t too bright, then,” Tormund said. “He took a boat, so he was only a week behind you.”

 

Jon sighed. “He would have missed us then. We left for Winterfell.”

 

“The boy will be fine,” Beric said.

 

Jon nodded, though he wasn’t convinced. “Let’s go, then.”

 

Outside, Arya and Clegane approached, tailed by another hundred Wildlings. They had only the horses they had arrived on, so the trip back to Winterfell would be slower. The few wounded among the Wildlings were given the steeds, and then they began their journey in the dark.

 

 Arya led the way, walking silently through the snow, keeping a hand near Needle.

 

Jon wondered about Gendry Baratheon. When they were back at Winterfell, he would send a raven to Dragonstone. He had been thinking about that boy. About his name.

 

It wasn’t a very good answer to his problem, and he knew Daenerys wouldn’t have it. He knew Gendry probably wouldn’t have it either. But it still felt like a chance.

 

At some point along the icy road, Tormund came and placed a hand on his shoulder. Brienne and Mormont and Clegane must have spread out among the Wildlings.

 

“Thank you for finding us,” Tormund said again.

 

“We weren’t going to let you freeze and die,” Jon answered. “We need all the men we can get.”

 

Tormund looked behind him, at his people, almost fondly. “I know, but still.”

 

“There’s no more us against you, Wildlings versus the Northerners. It’s just the living against the dead, now,” Jon said. “My…father, used to say that when the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.”

 

“And that applies to our…situation?” Tormund asked, a smile on his voice.

 

Jon kept walking, following Arya, who was undoubtedly listening to them talk. “There has never been a situation more warranting of that advice.”


	15. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been working nonstop since my last update, so if you've been looking out for this chapter I'm sorry about the long wait. Enjoy Sansa Stark...
> 
> also, who else adored the Frozen II teaser trailer? My love for my favourite Disney siblings was dormant - until now! And as a student of film, let me just say that this is some top-quality animation we're getting. *squeals with happiness*

Daylight only lasted for several hours these days, and it was already darkening outside. From the frosty window in Father’s study Sansa watched Meera and Bran enter the Godswood.

 

Lady Reed’s hair curled around her shoulders, dark as coal against the white snow. She was smiling at something Bran was saying and Sansa wondered how she got him to talk. She supposed they had spent more time together these past few years than quite possibly Sansa had spent with Bran in his whole life. She had never played with her siblings growing up, preferring to keep the company of the girls in Winterfell her own age.

 

Sansa had talked with Lord Reed earlier at Winterfell’s midday meal about his friendship with her mother and father. He had mentioned that he had had a son too. Jojen, who had gone with Meera and Bran beyond the Wall and not returned.

 

Sansa wondered about Jon. Had he found the Wildlings yet? Perhaps sending just five to bring them back had been a mistake...and five of the most crucial, no less.

 

A knock sounded at the door and Sansa turned away from the window. Across the room, the door cracked open and Tyrion poked his head inside.

 

“Lady Sansa, may I speak with you?”

 

Sansa supposed she couldn’t avoid this conversation forever. She sat down at the desk.

 

“Come in.”

 

Tyrion closed the door and walked over to the opposite seat, eyeing her through his curly fringe as if trying to guess her mood. They stared at each other for a moment, but when Tyrion opened his mouth to say something, she spoke first.

 

“It wasn’t right of me to leave you that day. At the wedding.”

 

Tyrion looked a bit surprised.

 

“I was your wife,” she added in explanation. “It was you and me, against all of them.”

 

The tips of her orange hair brushed the armrests.

 

“We were never truly husband and wife,” Tyrion said eventually, leaning back in his seat. “And I’m glad you left. Afterall, I did soon enough.”

 

“Yes, I heard about your adventures in Essos.” Sansa poured two cups of wine, handing one across the table to Tyrion.

 

“And I’ve heard about yours here in Westeros,” he said, taking the cup with a close-lipped smile. “Not as exciting as mine, I think.”

 

“No, they weren’t pleasant.”

 

Tyrion gave her that pitying look again. “I’m sorry you had to go through them.”

 

“So am I.” She twirled the stem of her cup. “But I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t.”

 

Tyrion took a sip of wine. “I wanted to thank you for killing Littlefinger.”

 

Sansa smiled. “My pleasure,” she joked.

 

“Yes, he wouldn’t have made the war any easier to fight with his endless scheming and self-interests.”

 

“Which war?” Sansa asked darkly. “You know, he started the first one. The war of the five kings.”

 

Tyrion cocked his head. “Started?”

 

Sansa nodded. “He killed Jon Arryn, then turned the Starks against the Lannisters.”

 

Tyrion’s eyebrows rose in surprise, then he sighed heavily. “You know, I believe that.”

 

Sansa sipped her wine while Tyrion contemplated.

 

“So, have you come to explain why you joined Daenerys Targaryen,” she asked, searching for something to say.

 

Tyrion looked up at her knowingly. “Daenerys is a good person. She came north to help you.”

 

Sansa rolled her eyes. “She came north for Jon.”

 

Tyrion didn’t say anything. He looked down at his wine.

 

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Sansa said, leaning forward. “They’re…together, aren’t they?”

 

Tyrion met her gaze. “Yes.”

 

“How do you know she isn’t just using him?”

 

“She isn’t, Sansa,” Tyrion sighed. “I’ve seen how she cares for people, people she doesn’t even know. Daenerys is a good person, and she wants to build a better world.”

 

“But will she burn this one down to do it?”

 

“I’ve persuaded her not to.”

 

“Well, that’s comforting.”

 

Tyrion gave her a look that mothers give their children when they’re acting juvenile.

 

“I’m sorry,” Sansa said finally, looking away. “I just want to protect Winterfell, protect the North. And my family. I’ve only just gotten them back.”

 

Tyrion’s stare was full of compassion. “I know. And I know that Daenerys knows how you feel. She won’t take any of that away from you. Or from Jon.”

 

Sansa slowly nodded. “Okay, I believe you.”

 

They smiled at each other.

 

The door swung open suddenly and a flustered Meera burst through, followed by Sam and Bran. Sansa and Tyrion stood.

 

Meera stared at them, alarmed, hands clenched by her side. Sam looked pale and worried as he wheeled Bran to a jerky stop. Snow frosted the tips of her brother’s dark hair.

 

“What’s wrong?” Tyrion asked sternly when he saw Bran’s solemn face.

 

“Bran had a vision,” Meera said quickly. “He saw…”

 

She looked at Bran.

 

“I saw the Night King,” Bran finished, meeting Sansa’s blue eyes with his brown. “I saw him here. I think he's bringing the war to Winterfell.”


	16. Bran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello. So I'm back at Uni and very busy, so I'll try and keep on track as best I can. Enjoy the growing anticipation as we wait for season 8.

Howland Reed wore a new fur jacket over his leather tunic. His pants and boots were also leather – a material Bran supposed was good for keeping out the water. Afterall, Greywater Watch was seated in the Neck, a vast marshland. The crannogmen lived and breathed the swamp.

 

Meera eyed Bran and her father suspiciously before shrugging and walking out of the room.

 

Howland looked after her, then turned and sat down heavily on the end of Bran’s bed. “Meera isn’t the same girl who left Greywater Watch. She’s changed, and I don’t know if for the better.”

 

Bran watched the door, still seeing the slope of Meera’s eyebrows as she frowned. “She went through a lot for me. I’m grateful.”

 

Howland stared into the middle distance like he was seeing another time and place before his eyes. “I was angry when Meera returned. Jojen wasn’t with her and she wasn’t smiling or cheery like she used to be. Her mother turned ill with grief. I wondered whether it had been worth it, letting my only children leave home for a boy they didn’t know, even if he was Ned Stark’s son.”

 

Bran didn’t know what to say. Had he ruined Meera’s family?

 

“I wanted to talk to you about the day you killed Arthur Dayne.”

 

Howland looked at him, a bit surprised and a bit insulted. Like Bran had just brushed aside the hurt he had caused him without an apparent care.

 

Howland sat up straight. “What about it?”

 

The door opened, and Sam hurried in stammering an apology. He sat down on the pouf beside the fireplace, staring up at them wide-eyed. Howland glanced down at him like he didn’t know what to make of him.

 

“You know I’m the Three Eyed Raven,” Bran said.

 

Howland nodded.

 

“And I’ve seen that day,” he continued. “They day _you_ killed Arthur Dayne and my father adopted Aegon Targaryen.”

 

Howland looked uncomfortable, as though he thought he was breaking the promise of secrecy he had made to Ned Stark all those years ago.

 

“That’s right,” Howland said eventually. “Ned and I were the only ones who knew, until you became…what you are. Your bastard brother is your cousin, and the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.”

 

“I wouldn’t say that too loud,” Sam said, smiling up at them nervously.

 

“Jon,” Bran emphasised pointedly, “doesn’t know that you know, and doesn’t want anyone else knowing. Speak to him when he returns, if you wish, but don’t speak to anyone else about it.”

 

Howland smiled darkly. “I’ve been keeping this secret much longer than you, Bran Stark.”

 

Sam shifted on his seat, obviously uncomfortable. Bran knew that Howland was not happy with him, despite how Meera might have tried to soothe his annoyance. He met Howland’s gaze, and didn’t let go.

 

“I asked you here to talk about this because I want you to know I’m glad you were there that day in Dorne.”

 

Howland blinked.

 

“I’m glad that my father told you, and that you kept it a secret. It forged a bond between the two of you, and our houses. And I think Jon will find comfort in knowing someone who protected him all these years.”

 

Howland almost appeared embarrassed now. He looked away from Bran.

 

“And I want to tell you that I’m sorry for Jojen. He was a true friend and teacher to me when I needed one…wise beyond his age, kind to Rickon and Hodor and Summer. And a good brother to Meera.”

 

Howland was staring into the fire, but Bran could see tears on his cheeks.

 

“I don’t know how much Meera told you, but it was wrong for your son to die the way he did. Wrong for both of them.”

 

Howland didn’t react, so Bran wasn’t able to glean whether Meera had told her father what had happened. He looked to Sam, who nodded.

 

“Lord Reed, I’ve asked Sam to escort you down to the crypts, if you would like. I thought you might want to see Father.”

 

Howland turned to face him again, and his eyes glistened. “Thank you.”

 

Bran nodded.

 

The two men stood and left his room, Sam already chatting about the feat in architecture that were the crypts of Winterfell. Meera appeared in the doorway, watching him keenly.

 

Bran sighed. “You heard all that, didn’t you?”

 

Meera shrugged, but a smile graced her lips. She came over and hugged him.

 

The familiar feeling of her arms circling him, combined with the unfamiliar situation that wasn’t dragging him somewhere or pulling him upright, was…nice.

 

“Thank you for doing that for him,” Meera said, then rocked back onto her heels to look up at him.

 

Bran didn’t quite smile. “I also did it for you. I am sorry for Jojen. Truly.”

 

“I know you are,” Meera said, gripping his hands.

 

They stared at each other until he asked if she would mind taking him to the Godswood.

 

“It will be dark soon.”

 

Bran shrugged. “Nothing will hurt us in Winterfell.”

 

“The freezing cold might,” Meera muttered, wheeling him down through the castle.

 

Bran smiled. He didn’t think he could ever be without Meera again, who, despite everything bad that was happening, could still make a witty remark.

 

He turned to look up at her as snowflakes started to dust their hair. “I’ll look into the future and see if we make it back to the castle before dinner.”

 

Meera laughed, loud and abrupt. “I haven’t heard you talk like that since the Nightfort, when you told us that story about the rat cook. Do you remember that?”

 

Bran looked back ahead. “Of course. I remember it all.”

 

The Godswood was even whiter and colder than it had been yesterday. It was an effort to wheel his chair along the path, with the ice threatening to send Meera skidding and his chair rolling away. But she finally settled him beneath the tree and sat down on a fur blanket.

 

“Don’t be gone too long,” Meera said to him.

 

Bran nodded and felt his eyes roll back.

 

…

 

_He stood in the northern corridor of Winterfell._

_He didn’t know what time of day it was. It could have been early morning. It could have been late afternoon. All he knew was that it was grey._

_Dull light filtered through the tall, narrow windows lining the corridor. Bran stood, watching the shadow of snowfall on the stone floors._

_It was silent. Eerily silent._

_Bran approached one of the windows and peered out into the storm. Icy blue irises glowed back at him._

_He stumbled away from the window._

_Suddenly, a huge crack rung his ears. He looked up._

_Ice spread across the rafters, crackling and popping, creeping down the walls, coating the floor. Cold, hard ice._

_Bran began to run, slipping and sliding as he rounded a corner._

_The gates of Winterfell appeared, frozen over, and just outside them stood ten figures bundled in fur, partly obscured by the snow._

_Ten of them, against one hundred thousand._

_They had their weapons drawn and ready. Bran saw a battle axe, a long sword, a war hammer._

_Above them on the battlements stood the North-men, bows drawn and aimed into the gloom. Behind him, Bran saw Sansa and Tyrion standing solemnly on the veranda, armour at their chests and arms._

_Waiting._

_They were all waiting._

_A roar shattered the silence. And blue fire lit up the fog like lighting, illuminating the shadow of a great, rotten beast hovering on the wind._

_The Night King rode Viserion, and when he lifted his spear of ice, the blue eyes shuttered and began to approach._

_Bran felt the ground beneath his feet rumble. He looked down at the frosty mud._

_It shook again._

_And suddenly he was in the crypts beneath Winterfell. Down before the deepest catacomb, where the crumbling stone statue of a past Stark was covered in new ice, the iron sword at her feet crumbling away._

_Where Bran knew something waited. And where he knew someone was coming…_

 

Bran woke.

 

Meera was brushing snow off his lap, and when she looked up at him, she stiffened. “What did you see?”

 

The question was careful, her voice measured. But her eyes were wide and worried.

 

Bran was breathing heavily. “The Night King is coming to Winterfell. He’s bringing his armies here. The war will be here. I saw it.”

 

Meera pulled herself to her feet. “When?”

 

“I -” Bran stopped. “I don’t know. Soon, I think.”

 

Meera started to wheel him back along the icy path, scrambling a bit in her haste. “We have to tell Sansa and the others. We need to prepare.”

 

Bran just nodded, leaning his head back.

 

The crypts. Something was down there. Something terrible. And something important.

 

He was quiet as Meera pushed him as fast as she could. Sam bumped into them on their way past the crypts, and Meera hurriedly explained. Bran stared through the doorway, down into the darkness, wondering.

 

Meera led the way to Father’s study. She bounded through the door, and Bran found Sansa and Tyrion standing.

 

“What’s wrong?” Tyrion asked sternly.

 

“Bran had a vision,” Meera answered quickly. “He saw…”

 

She looked at Bran.

 

“I saw the Night King,” Bran finished. “I saw him here. I think he’s bringing the war to Winterfell.”

 

“What?” Sansa rounded the desk and came over to him.

 

“The war will be here, Sansa. At Winterfell. I saw it.”

 

Tyrion approached too. “When will he be here?”

 

Bran swallowed. “I don’t know exactly.”

 

Sansa looked at Sam. “Will you go and find Davos?”

 

“Daenerys and Jaime, too,” Tyrion added.

 

Sam nodded hastily and left.

 

Meera sat down on the sofa beside Bran. “We need to evacuate Winter town.”

 

Sansa and Tyrion shared a look.

 

“We have a bit of time,” Bran said. “I saw Jon too, outside the gates, standing before the entire Army of the Dead.”

 

“And he’ll be back…” Tyrion asked.

 

“Tomorrow morning, hopefully,” Sansa finished.

 

Meera leaned forward. “We still need to evacuate. And it’s better to start now.”

 

Bran nodded. “Meera’s right. How many live in town? We need to move them.”

 

“Nowhere is safe,” Tyrion argued, leaning against the desk.

 

Bran could see Sansa’s mind working.

 

His sister shook her head. “No, I have an idea.”

 

///

 

They gathered in the Great Hall.

 

Lyanna Mormont sat next to Meera, the fierce look on her face seemingly her default expression.

 

Jaime and Bronn were standing by Tyrion, eyeing the young Lady of Bear Island with some disbelief. Sansa and Daenerys sat side by side at the high table.

 

“Bear Island is small, but we’ll make room,” Lyanna said finally.

 

Everyone sighed in relief.

 

“Thank you, My Lady,” Davos smiled.

 

“It would be best if you left as soon as all the children and elderly are able,” Sansa said.

 

Lyanna nodded. “I’ll send word to prepare the boats now.”

 

She left, conferring with her escorts, walking taller and straighter than most ladies. When the doors closed, everyone was quiet.

 

“I suppose I should ask,” Howland spoke up. He was standing behind Meera. “Will we fight, or do we begin siege preparations?”

 

Sansa shook her head. “Barring the gates won’t stop them. Only dragonglass and fire will.”

 

“Which is why I’ll take Drogon and Rhaegal in,” Daenerys announced.

 

Tyrion opened his mouth to disagree, as did Jaime and Davos.

 

“Daenerys is right,” Bran said, eyeing everyone in the room in turn. Jaime struggled to hold his gaze. “Our best chance are the dragons.”

 

“The Night King will be riding Viserion, though,” Tyrion said, looking imploringly at Daenerys.  

 

“Two against one,” Bronn shrugged, as though he found them satisfactory odds.

 

Daenerys stood, stern faced. “I’m doing this. I’ll wipe out half the wites while the Unsullied and the Dothraki take the rest.”

 

Sansa also stood. “The Northerners will man the battlements with arrows. And I suppose you’ll want to fight on the front, Ser Jaime?”

 

Jaime nodded. “Wherever I’m needed.”

 

Bran thought about the ten people he had seen outside the gates, led by Jon.

 

Tyrion walked over to him then, an idea sparking in his eye. “Do you know from which direction they will attack?”

 

“They’ll come from the east, but surround the north and the south,” Bran answered, remembering the blue eyes that had lit the gloom.

 

Tyrion nodded, smiling. “We need to build trenches.”

 

“Trenches?” Jaime echoed his brother.

 

“I don’t think we’ll catch them by surprise, jumping out of the ground,” Bronn said, crossing his arms.

 

“No, but the fire will.”

 

Sansa smiled. “Tar.”

 

Tyrion nodded. “It will hold them off for a while, while –”

 

“While I go in,” Daenerys finished. She looked at Bronn. “Can you build that crossbow again? The one you tried to kill me with?”

 

Bronn’s mouth opened and closed.

 

“We didn’t build it,” Jaime said instead. “But we can make one like it.”

 

“Good,” Daenerys nodded. “I’ll lead Viserion and the King away from the battle, where Ser Bronn will be ready to aim and kill.”

 

They all looked surprised.

 

Meera frowned. “You’ll kill your own dragon?”

 

Daenerys’s mouth tightened. “I already did once.”

 

A knock came from the doors and a guard poked his head inside.

 

“Milady,” he addressed Sansa.

 

Sansa rounded the table. “What news?”

 

He opened the door, and a young man – familiar to Bran in some way – entered the room. He had short dark hair and sky-blue eyes that looked as bright as the white walkers’. He was strongly built, with features like…Bran couldn’t pinpoint them.

 

Davos stood abruptly, a smile and a frown struggling for dominance. “And just where have you been, young lad?”

 

The man grinned a crooked grin.

 

“Gendry, wasn’t it?” Tyrion asked, stepping forward.

 

 “Still is, Milord.”

 

Bronn laughed.

 

Gendry looked around, noting Jaime with some suspicion, then Bran in his chair with some interest. He looked back at Davos. “Where’s Jon?”

 

 “Jon isn’t back yet,” Sansa answered warily. “Who are you?”

 

“Back from where?” Gendry didn’t answer.

 

Daenerys walked around the table and stood beside Meera. She eyed Gendry like an acquaintance, but not a familiar one. “Bringing back the survivors of Eastwatch. You are one of them, no?”

 

Gendry’s brows furrowed. “Survivors?”

 

Davos ushered Gendry further into the room. “The Night King breached the Wall at Eastwatch. He’s through. Jon and Mormont went to find Tormund.”

 

Gendry turned pale. “When did this happen?”

 

“A few days ago,” Tyrion answered.

 

Bran felt Meera’s shoulder bump against his as she shifted.

 

“Where have you been?” Davos asked him again.

 

Gendry looked around, almost regretfully. “I left Eastwatch for Dragonstone. I’m better use as a smith.”

 

Daenerys crossed her arms, but she was smiling.

 

“And haven’t you ever heard of a raven, lad?” Davos said, shaking his head helplessly.

 

Gendry shrugged. “Aye, but I haven’t ever seen snowstorms like these, either. I figured you’d come to Winterfell, so I’ve brought new weapons with me.”

 

“Good, we’ll need them,” Tyrion said. “The war is almost upon us.”

 

Meera turned to him as the others began discussing preparations, Davos and Daenerys moving to talk with Gendry. "I only ever saw Robert Baratheon once. Five years ago, when he passed through the Neck on his way to Winterfell."

 

Bran looked at her. She was staring at Gendry.

 

"And he...he looks like Robert Baratheon."

 


	17. Arya

Arya sat atop her horse in Winterfell’s frozen courtyard.

 

After trudging along the Kingsroad all night and day, it was a relief to pull herself up into her saddle and be carried up the hill. Jon, Mormont and Brienne were already unsaddling their horses, but Clegane was still astride next to her, stretching out his limbs.

 

Snow was falling, and the courtyard was busy with soldiers heading in and out of the western gate – the gate that faced Winter Town. Arya could spy people hurrying around down in the streets, stacking crates on carts. It looked like they were packing.

 

"Jon!" Sansa came down the stairs amid the crowd, followed by Davos.

 

Arya shifted and swung down stiffly from her saddle.

 

“No problems?” Sansa asked, embracing him.

 

Jon shook his head. “No. Any trouble here?”

 

Sansa looked solemn. “Define trouble.”

 

“What does that mean,” Clegane asked her gravely, coming up to them.

 

Arya looked around the courtyard. Davos was standing with Brienne and Podrick next to several wagons filled with dragonglass weapons that hadn’t been there when she’d left.

 

Arya sighed. Those daggers looked wickedly sharp.

 

Tormund and Beric were there too, talking with a young man who was showing them the business end of a mighty war hammer. His stance was familiar to her. He looked up midsentence and found her watching.

 

Arya froze, her breath leaving her.

 

His blue eyes widened, his words lost.

 

“Gendry,” Arya uttered after finding her own words. She barely noted Sansa, Jon and Clegane looking over at her.

 

It was him.

 

Gendry looked as stunned as she felt.

 

“Arry.”

 

The hammer fell into Tormund’s hands as Gendry pushed past him. He halted when he saw Jon. “Sorry…Milady.”

 

Arya approached him. “I told you never to call me that. And it’s Arya again.”

 

Gendry looked at her with many emotions, then seemed to struggle for the right thing to say in front of their audience. “Your hair is long.”

 

“It’s been three years,” she said in answer.

 

Arya looked him over. His hair was shorter. “I thought you were dead.”

 

Gendry smirked. “Did you have that little faith?”

 

Arya blinked.

 

“Well, no,” she said. “But the Red Woman took you for a reason. I suppose I thought she wanted a good-looking sacrifice or something.”

 

Gendry raised a brow at that, but then frowned, eyes darkening. “I almost was.”

 

Arya supressed a sudden shiver.

 

 “What happened to you,” he asked instead.

 

 Arya didn’t bother looking over her shoulder at the scarred man watching nearby. “A hound stole me.”

 

 She heard him snort.

 

 Gendry did look at him. “Why didn’t you tell me Arya was alive?”

 

 Arya wasn’t sure how to feel about the demand that sharpened Gendry's voice, or the viciousness that heated his stare. Or the way he said her real name.

 

Clegane came up next to them and crossed his arms. He smiled darkly at Gendry. “I didn’t know either, boy. She and I…parted ways, two years ago.”

 

 Arya sneered. “You mean I left you for dead.”

 

 Clegane lost his smile. “Do I look dead to you?”

 

 Arya ignored him. “How did you get away?”

 

 Gendry looked reluctant to answer, but then said, “Davos helped me escape, so I went back to King’s Landing."

 

 Arya blinked again.

 

 Then socked him in the arm. “You went back to King's Landing?”

 

 He looked almost guilty for a moment. “I needed work. And I knew that the Red Woman wouldn’t step a foot inside the city with a Lannister on the throne.”

 

 Arya still eyed him in annoyance. “Well, then how are you here now?”

 

 Gendry looked over her shoulder at Jon, then back at her. “I went North with Jon.”

 

 Arya hid her surprise. She found this was too big a coincidence to process right now. And while Jon technically wasn’t Gendry’s king, the insolence still rang clear.

 

She found Jon standing beside her, eyeing the two of them curiously. Sansa and Clegane had gone over to Davos to examine the new weapons. 

 

 “How do you know each other?” Jon asked.

 

 Arya and Gendry shared a look full of history.

 

 She answered. “When I left King’s Landing for Winterfell, Gendry was leaving for the Night's Watch. We travelled together for two years until the Red Woman took him.”

 

 Jon frowned at Gendry. “And you didn’t find the time to mention that you knew my sister?”

 

 Arya glanced at Gendry.

 

 “I thought she would be dead.”

 

 Now it was Arya’s turn to smirk. “What was that about having faith?”

 

 Gendry didn’t look amused. “Well, now you know.”

 

 “And does she know?” Jon asked him, glancing between them.

 

 “Do I know what?” Arya said.

 

 Gendry didn’t look at her. “She wouldn’t. I didn’t even know until the Red Woman told me.”

 

  "Do I know what?” she said accusingly and stepped into his space, forcing him to look at her. She was still shorter than him, to her irritation.

 

 Gendry stared down at her but didn’t answer.

 

 “Well?” Arya demanded.

 

 Jon spoke up. “He’s Gendry Baratheon. Robert Baratheon's son.”

 

 Another shock she tried to hide. It was hard.

 

Arya stared at this poor, back-end blacksmith she had known for two years of her life, but apparently hadn’t really known at all. “Baratheon?”

 

For some reason Gendry looked guilty. “That’s why the Gold Cloaks wanted me so bad back on the Kingsroad. Joffrey wanted me dead.”

 

“Oh,” Arya’s eyes widened. “So, you’re the heir.”

 

Gendry’s own eyes widened at that. “What? Heir?”

 

He laughed then. “Arya, why would I want to be a king?”

 

Arya crossed her arms. “That’s not what I said, stupid.”

 

“There’s been three of them on that throne in five years,” Gendry continued, eyes gleaming with amusement as he watched her. “And all of them are dead.”

 

Arya frowned. “But you’re Robert Baratheon’s son.”

 

“And the Lannisters have taken the throne now, so I’m not really the heir at all,” Gendry reasoned back at her.

 

Arya turned to Jon, who looked at Gendry.

 

“Depending on who you ask, some would say you are the rightful heir,” Jon concluded.

 

He had a strange look in his eye, as though he thought Gendry was the answer to a problem.

 

Gendry snorted. “Okay, don’t tell Daenerys about this…I have a feeling she won’t like it.”

 

Arya shoved all the new information down. “Yeah, well, you’re not much of a threat in my opinion.”

 

Jon laughed.

 

Gendry scowled. “I don’t think I’d want to be.”

 

Sansa was returning carrying a handful of arrows with dragonglass tips. She stopped beside Gendry. "You made these?"

 

"Yes, Milady."

 

"There are over five thousand." She said it like she was doubtful.

 

Gendry grinned. "I didn’t forge them all…just taught the smiths how to."

 

"You've been at Dragonstone?" Arya asked him.

 

Clegane reached over to take an arrow from Sansa, lifting it up to the light to examine it.

 

Gendry nodded. "I left Eastwatch and went there to help with the weapons. I was no use on the Wall."

 

"But you should've sent word, lad," Davos grumbled, coming up to them.

 

"I didn’t realise you were keeping tabs on me," Gendry said, but looked appreciative nonetheless.

 

Arya smiled.

 

Brienne was still talking with Tormund and Beric, Podrick by her side looking around the courtyard. Mormont had disappeared, most likely gone to meet his queen. Tyrion and Bran were nowhere to be seen, either.

 

Jon, who had been silent for a while, turned to Sansa. "What's all this preparation for?"

 

Davos and Sansa glanced at each other worriedly.

 

"Bran had another vision," Sansa told them nervously.

 

"What happened?" Clegane asked, lowering the arrow to look at her.

 

Sansa glanced at him, but answered to Jon. "We should talk inside."

 

Arya looked at Gendry and found him watching her. She lifted her brows at him in question, but he shook his head. He didn’t know anything either.

 

She marvelled that they still understood each other without having to speak. It was something they had learnt to do during their two years together, when it had been best to stay as quiet as possible and talking aloud had been dangerous.

 

 "We should hurry," Davos muttered. "I fear we are running out of time."

 

Clegane took the arrows from Sansa and returned them to the wagon, then followed her to the verandas. Davos and Jon went with them.

 

Arya knew she should go too, but she found herself turning back to Gendry. He was still watching her, his blue eyes bright in the snowy air. He looked broader than before, but that could just be the furs he was wearing.

 

“I can’t believe this,” she said finally.

 

Gendry frowned. “I’m sorry, Arya.”

 

Arya shook her head. “What for?”

 

“Maybe everything would have been different if we’d stayed together.”

 

“Everything would have been different,” she said.

 

Brienne, Tormund and Beric came up to them, the former looking highly annoyed.

 

“It really is a small world,” Beric said, grinning at them both.  

 

Tormund was still unabashedly staring at Brienne with a suggestive smile.

 

Brienne rolled her eyes. “Let’s go inside.”

 

“After you,” Tormund offered in his strong northern accent, but Brienne was already walking past him. He followed closely with a hop in his step.

 

“It’s good to see you together again,” Beric said.

 

Arya crossed her arms. “After you split us apart.”

 

Gendry smirked.

 

Beric shrugged. “Gold is gold.”

 

Arya raised an eyebrow. She fished a loose gold coin out of her pocket and flipped it at Beric. It whacked him on the nose.

 

Gendry laughed.

 

“How many lives do you have left, fire-worshiper?” She asked, turning to head inside.

 

Arya heard them follow her, Beric muttering his answer.

 

“Just the one.”


End file.
